<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>Long Winter by writeskatelive</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/22825834">Long Winter</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeskatelive/pseuds/writeskatelive'>writeskatelive</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Figure Skating - Fandom, War and Peace - Fandom</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>F/F, F/M, M/M, War and Peace</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-02-21</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-04-28 12:48:10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>18</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>41,236</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/22825834</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/writeskatelive/pseuds/writeskatelive</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The War and Peace figure skating fanfic nobody asked for.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Aleksandra Boikova and Aleksandr Galliamov, Aleksandra Boikova and Dmitri Kozlovskii, Alexandra Stepanova and Ivan Bukin, Andrei Lazukin/Elizaveta Tuktamysheva, Dmitri Aliev and Alexander Samarin, Elizaveta Tuktamysheva and Betina Popova, Evgenia Medvedeva and Dmitri Kozlovskii, Evgenia Tarasova and Vladimir Morozov, Ksenia Stolbova and Fedor Klimov, Tatiana Volosozhar and Maxim Trankov, Victoria Sinitsina and Nikita Katsalapov</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Four Blue Eyes</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Princess Aleksandra Igorevna Boikova, fondly known by all as Princess Sasha, could barely stop herself from bouncing with excitement as she slipped her arms through the fluttering sleeves of her debutante gown, careful not to unpin the elaborate coiffure her mother had spent the past hour shaping. The skirt rushed to the floor with an exuberant whoosh, and a collective gasp rose from the three women in front of her – her mother, her grandmother, and her best friend, Dasha.</p><p>“Careful!” said her mother, Princess Anna Alexeyevna Boikova.</p><p>Sasha giggled, lifting the skirts so she could make her way to the mirror. Dasha stepped up behind her to close the laces in the back with her tiny, nimble fingers, and Sasha drew in a breath before the sash snapped shut around her waist.</p><p>“It’s perfect,” said her grandmother. Grand Duchess Tamara Nikolayevna Moskvina was nearly eighty years of age, but she was quicker and clearer of mind than most women half her age. Unlike many of the elderly women in St. Petersburg, she did not bother with wigs, and her short, dark hair gave her the clever charm of a pixie. She stood more than half a foot shorter than Sasha, but she walked with the regal bearing of an honored general. Everyone – even her own children – called her Babushka, the Russian word for grandmother.</p><p>Sasha couldn’t help smiling as she took in her reflection in the mirror. Her golden brown hair was swept up in a series of pearl combs, then topped with luxurious curls that perfectly matched her natural shade. Her bright blue eyes were outlined in gold-tinged paint, making her seem older, more serious. Pale pink gloss sparkled on her lips. The dress itself was also pale pink, fitted at the bodice and waist before exploding into layer after layer of rich tulle skirts, like the extravagant cake their cook had made for her name day. The sleeves were no more than a sweep of shimmering muslin across each arm that left her shoulders bare. Her new satin slippers were so white they gleamed, but she wasn’t going to leave the party until they were riddled with holes from dancing.</p><p>“Well, isn’t she just the prettiest thing?” said Babushka, her small mouth drawn up into a smile. She turned to Sasha’s mother. “Come now, Anya, let the young ladies talk amongst themselves. We should go and check on supper.”</p><p>“Oh, of course.” Babushka tugged Anna Alexeyevna’s arm, and the two older women slipped out of the room, leaving Sasha and Dasha alone in Sasha’s lavish bedchamber. The moment the door shut, Sasha let out a squeal.</p><p>“Ah, this is so exciting! I can’t wait to see everyone – Papa said he invited every family in Petersburg. He hired the orchestra from the Mariinsky Theater to play the waltzes, and he’s bringing the famous dancer Mikhail Arbatskayev for a special performance.”</p><p>“That’s good,” said Dasha, but her face was noncommittal. “And there will also be suitors.”</p><p>“That’s the most fun part of all!” Sasha laughed and spun around, nearly knocking Dasha over with the huge skirt. “There’ll be so many people to dance with!”</p><p>“It will be excellent. It is best to amuse yourself while you are still free to do so.”</p><p>“Oh, Dasha, don’t be silly. Babushka is more than four times older than I, and she finds many kinds of amusement in life.” Indeed, it was not uncommon to see Babushka leaping around the ballroom from one gentleman to the next, keeping in time with the debutantes.</p><p>“Sasha, I’m serious! When a young woman comes out in society, people will presume she is seeking marriage. You must be clear in your intentions.”</p><p>Dasha was only sixteen, two years younger than Sasha, but she had already come out last year. For Sasha, her debut was little more than a formality to celebrate her coming-of-age. Her elder brother and sister were already married with children, so there was little pressure to be wed. The Boikov family was one of the wealthiest and most influential families in St. Petersburg. Dasha’s parents, the Count and Countess Pavliuchenko, had no son to inherit the fortune, so it was critical that their daughter married well to ensure financial security. Her parents had quickly arranged her betrothal to a man named Khodykin, and they had married two months ago.</p><p>It was a decent match. Khodykin, despite his lack of a noble title, was the eldest son of wealthy merchants, guaranteed a sizable inheritance upon their deaths. While many girls required to marry for wealth ended up paired with men older than their fathers, he was not yet twenty. He had a good temperament, and he spoke of Dasha with a gentle fondness. But the idea of marriage, especially so young, gave Sasha an inexplicable tingle of unease in her neck. Even now, despite her impatience to join the ball downstairs, she still did not know what she would say if a man asked for her hand tonight.</p><p>“I am perfectly clear in my intentions,” said Sasha, sticking out her chin in the mirror to shake loose the prickles of doubt. “I intend to have a delightful evening at the ball, and should a charming young suitor catch my eye, I will most certainly dance with him. I will not worry myself with what happens next. That’s what you’re here for.”</p><p>“You little cat.” Dasha squeezed her shoulders and lay her head on Sasha’s neck. In the mirror, the two made an odd pairing. While Sasha was long-limbed and stately, Dasha was almost as tiny as Babushka, and her brown hair was coiled around her head like a wreath and fastened with a silver net. Her pale gray gown was simple and tailored; beside Sasha’s frivolous ensemble, she looked like a lady’s maid instead of a young countess. Sasha’s face was all bright eyes and rosy cheeks, but Dasha’s features were small and downcast, giving her an air of shyness.</p><p>“Daria?” came a young male voice from the other side of the door.</p><p>Dasha stood up straight, ran her hand along the side of her head to ensure her hairpins hadn’t slipped, and bustled to the door. “I’m coming, Denis Sergeyevich.”</p><p>No rude words were exchanged, but something about the interaction sounded profoundly odd, uncomfortable, and wrong to Sasha. It took her a minute to realize that Dasha still called her husband by his patronymic, the formal form of his name.</p><p>Sasha had never thought much about her own potential husband, and she had no need to. She was coming out tonight, but her parents would not urge her to choose a suitor. She could spend the next few years as a free woman in society, enjoying parties and conversation, until she decided she was ready.</p><p>She wandered to the window and squinted past her own reflection to see the guests arriving.</p><p>She instantly recognized the four-horse carriage that belonged to Prince Eduard Mikhailovich Kozlovskii and covered her mouth as a laugh burst from her lips. The Kozlovskiis lived just two houses away from the Boikov mansion, and hardly a day passed that a Kozlovskii didn’t walk past the pair of yellow mansions that separated them to pay a visit to the Boikovs. No doubt Eduard Mikhailovich had insisted on using the carriage for formality.</p><p>The carriage door swung open, and she laughed harder, waiting for the entire Kozlovskii brood to come tumbling out. But only a single figure stepped onto the cobblestone path. Dima, Eduard’s eldest son, was tall and strongly built. His usually wild light brown hair had been combed down, but a stubborn wisp stood up on the right side. He was wearing his finest jacket – black velvet with silver scrolls running down the back and sleeves – and his boyish features were locked in such an intense, serious expression that she couldn’t stop giggling. She wondered how many hours he had spent in front of the mirror perfecting that stoic face.</p><p>Just seeing him set her at ease. It would be such a relief to have her sweet friend at her side tonight. Since childhood, he had been the one person she trusted more than herself. He had never scolded her for being clumsy or laughed at her love for classic literature or told her she was not destined for greatness like General Mishin. He reminded her fiercely of her sister Stasya’s golden retriever – energetic, endearing, and loyal to a fault.</p><p>Someone knocked on the door, and she sighed, trying to calm the fluttering in her stomach. It was tradition for a girl’s father to escort her down the grand staircase at her debutante ball. She had practiced this with Papa since she was a child, but tonight, her legs were tingling with so much excitement she could barely stay standing, let alone walk down a staircase gracefully.</p><p>“Just a minute, Papa,” she called.</p><p>“Sasha, it’s me.”</p><p>The familiar but unexpected voice startled her, but she recovered quickly and opened the door. “Oh, yes, come in, Dima. How did you get up here so fast?”</p><p>He swallowed and bounced on his heels. Up close, the silver embroidery on his formal jacket was even more stunning. His eyes were startlingly blue, as blue as her own.</p><p>“I took the back stairway,” he said.</p><p>“You clever thing.” She stepped back, letting him come further into the room. “You’d better not let Babushka find you up here. She’ll throw you out on your ear if she finds out you came up to see me before my grand debut.”</p><p>He just stood there – no smile, no comment, no movement. Since he had learned to walk and speak, he had been a chaotic force of nature, always in motion. He had started reading at the age of three, and from that day on, he had immersed himself in every book he could find, including epics, poetry, and philosophy. He absorbed the world around him like laundry soaking in the washtub, then formed opinions on these topics and shared them enthusiastically with anyone who would listen. He had often lamented to Sasha that the other noble boys in St. Petersburg had no interest in politics or the meaning of life, and they had spent many hours discussing the significance of constellations or the symbolism in Gothic novels. Standing on the threshold of her room, his jacket buttoned tightly around his neck, his silence was almost concerning.</p><p>Sasha spun around, letting her skirt fan out elegantly. “All right, this is the part where you say I look amazing.”</p><p>“Of course you do.” Dima swallowed again. “You always do.”</p><p>She smiled, but it didn’t reach the corners of her mouth. She knew him better than this. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, not meeting her eyes. For a moment, she wondered if something truly terrible had happened. His grandmother was quite elderly…had she passed away or something?</p><p>Before she could ask, Dima threw up his hands and flung back his head in exasperation. “Sasha, I can’t handle this. I’ve been trying to figure out how to tell you this for weeks, but I’m totally messing it up, and if I don’t do it right, it’ll ruin everything. I should’ve asked your parents first, but if I don’t say this right now, I think I my heart is going to explode.” He bit his lip and stared straight at her. “Will you be my wife?”</p><p>Her heart beat once, hard, slow, filling her ribcage with an echoing clap of thunder. She swallowed, trying to find the right words, but what could she say? She met his eyes, blue staring into blue. There was no trace of humor in his gaze, no indication that this was all a joke. She had never seen him like this before, and it unnerved her.</p><p>“I can’t,” she blurted out.</p><p>His face crumpled, and he squeezed his eyes shut. “I’m sorry. Forget I ever said it…I didn’t mean…God, I’m so stupid.”</p><p>The pain in his face cracked her heart. Ever since they had been playing together in his mother’s flower bed, she couldn’t remember a time when he was capable of keeping anything to himself. How long had he been holding this secret buried against his heart, waiting for the right time to speak it? When had it grown so unbearable that he needed to tell her so desperately?</p><p>He turned away to leave, but she grabbed his arm and forced him to look at her. “Dima, wait!”</p><p>“No, I understand.” He shook his head. “It was a terrible idea. I’m sorry.”</p><p>“That’s not what I meant!” She gripped the lapels of his jacket and stared up into his eyes, feeling herself tremble. “Dima, look at me!”</p><p>His hands clasped over hers, and for a moment she thought he was going to speak. But instead, he gently pried her fingers away from his jacket and disappeared out the door.</p><p>“Dima!” She caught the door before it shut, but he was already running down the corridor. She hiked up her long skirts, cursing as the yards of fabric tangled around her ankles, and tried to chase him. By the time she reached the end of the hallway, he was already at the bottom of the stairs, cutting through the crowd.</p><p>Sasha gripped the bannister and watched as he vanished out the door into the summer night. Her heart was pounding through the tight bodice of her dress, but she wasn’t sure if it was from running or from his words.</p><p>She didn’t realize that the whole crowd below could see her until she noticed them all looking up at the top of the stairs. A murmur rumbled through the crowd, and a moment later, she saw her father making his way up the staircase.</p><p>Prince Igor Boikov was a tall, distinguished-looking man in his late forties. Although his pale blond hair was half gray and the skin around his mouth had started to wrinkle, his eyes were still a brilliant, youthful blue – Sasha’s eyes.</p><p>“Good evening, Sasha,” he said. His mouth was smiling, but his eyebrows were raised. “It seems like you’re in quite the hurry to get downstairs and enjoy the party, hmm?”</p><p>She blushed. “I’m sorry, Papa. I didn’t mean to. I–”</p><p>He waved a hand. “Oh, no, it’s all right. To be quite honest, all the youngsters around here are acting particularly peculiar. I just saw Dima running out the door as if the building was on fire! Of course, that’s nothing unusual for him.”</p><p>Sasha lowered her head, unable to face her father’s amused expression. She felt certain that the color in her cheeks was flooding down her neck and across her bare arms.</p><p>“He probably just forgot something,” said Prince Boikov. “He’s a fine lad, but he gets distracted so easily.” He shrugged and extended his arm to Sasha. “Shall we go?”</p><p>She took hold of his elbow and tried to breathe slowly, steadily. She had been waiting for this moment her entire life, but she was not ready. In all the times she had dreamed about standing atop this staircase on her father’s arm in her debutante dress, she had never imagined a sinking stomach, a fluttering heart, and cold sweat glistening on the back of her neck. She swallowed hard, praying she wouldn’t vomit.</p><p>And the ball began.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. A Place in This World</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Vanya’s hands were shaking as he closed the final button of his father’s military jacket. The collar felt too tight around his neck, squeezing the life out of him before he even arrived on the battlefield. He tugged on the stiff blue fabric and frowned. It would have to do.</p><p>	He squared his shoulders and faced himself in the mirror. For years, he had dreamed of this moment, but it felt all wrong. A single lock of his brown hair stuck up no matter how hard he tried to slick it down. Although he had shaved that morning, his chin was never as smooth and distinguished as he would’ve liked. No matter how straight he pulled his spine, he was a bit shorter than his father and not quite as imposing.</p><p>	If he was any other man in Russia, he would have looked fine. If a foreigner looked at him, they would see an amiable fellow. He was above average height and lean, with an energetic stride and a strong constitution. His features were pleasant, especially his bright eyes, and he had an innocent, boyish charm that made him agreeable to all. His manners were good, his temper amiable, and he had no sworn enemies.</p><p>	But he was not any other man. He was Ivan Andreyevich Bukin, sole son of Prince Andrei Bukin and bearer of the most honored name in Russia. It was his duty to uphold his family’s dignity, and he could not look foolish or irresponsible at any cost.</p><p>	He swallowed and tried in vain to smooth down his hair in the front. He had spent years staring at his father’s portrait in the grand hall, that strong, courageous, dashing figure posing atop a majestic gray stallion, arrayed in the uniform Vanya wore now. He couldn’t remember a single dinner party where someone had not recounted a heroic tale of the fearless Captain Bukin and his glorious days in battle. Now it was his turn to create a story to be remembered, a legacy that mattered.</p><p>	Someone knocked on the door, light but firm, and he winced. He knew Sasha’s knock like he knew the sound of his own mother’s voice. He straightened his jacket once more, then called, “Come in.”</p><p>	He saw her in the mirror as she entered, her pale skin and light pink dress illuminated by the light of the three candles he had lit. She was tall and slender, with long limbs and the gracefulness of a water nymph. Her waist-length golden hair was fastened in an unadorned ponytail down her back. She seemed carved from marble – flawless, beautiful, and surprisingly strong. When she smiled, her heart-shaped face adopted an enchanting sweetness that endeared her to everyone who laid eyes on her.</p><p>	She was not smiling now.</p><p>	“I presume you’re leaving before dawn,” she said, her voice cold and flat like the edge of a chisel.</p><p>	Vanya closed his eyes and let out a long, exasperated sigh. He had tried to explain this to her a thousand times, but when Sasha had her mind made up, there was no convincing her.</p><p>	“I don’t really have a choice,” he said.</p><p>	“Of course you have a choice.” She wrinkled her nose, a small, quick twitch. “And you’ve chosen your path.”</p><p>	“It’s not up to me. You know that.”</p><p>	Sasha frowned, creating a small dent in her chin. “I don’t like this, Vanya. You know I don’t.”</p><p>	Vanya turned around to face her. She was standing barely five feet away, her arms folded across her chest. “Who am I if I stay?”</p><p>	“You’re Vanya! You’re Prince Ivan Andreyevich Bukin, one of the most respected men in Russia.”</p><p>	“And that’s exactly why I need to be out there.”</p><p>	“Is that why?” She pinned him with her dark eyes, pressing for the truth. “Or is it because your parents won’t let you stay?”</p><p>	He bit his lip. “You know what they’re like, Sasha.”</p><p>	Prince Andrei Bukin was a true patriot in every sense of the word. He drank his tea from a samovar and his vodka at every supper. He refused to dabble in the European traditions that had trickled into his country, calling them a “dreadful attempt at colonization”. He preferred traditional peasant plays to “men in stockings leaping about a stage”, as he referred to ballet. He would throw himself under a train without a second thought if his country required it. He had even named his only child after the first Tsar of Russia. He put his country above anything else, and he expected his son to do the same.</p><p>	When news of the war had broken out, Vanya’s father hadn’t even asked him if he wanted to join the army. He’d just clapped him on the shoulder and said, “I’m proud of you, son.” Because he already knew Vanya, agreeable and eager to please as he was, wouldn’t say no.<br/>
And his mother was another matter altogether.</p><p>	“Well, there’s nothing I can do about it,” said Sasha. “But that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”</p><p>	He squeezed his eyes shut. “Please, Sasha. Don’t make it any harder than it already is.”</p><p>	“I’m sorry.” He felt her touch his arm. “But it’s awful out there, awful! Men tearing each other apart, like wild beasts. Don’t you remember Kirill Lushov?” Vanya closed his eyes tighter, remembering the count who had returned from war with one leg cut above the knee. “And he was one of the luckier ones.” She cupped his face in her hand. “I just care too much about you.”</p><p>	He moaned softly and opened his eyes, unable to bear it any longer. She looked so beautiful staring up at him, her eyes softer and sweeter than usual, unraveling the resolve in his soul stitch by stitch. For a moment, he had the impulse to throw off his military jacket, sweep her up in his arms, and swear he would never leave her.</p><p>	But he didn’t.</p><p>	“Sasha,” he whispered. “I’m so sorry.”</p><p>	She stepped closer, her body pressing against him. He took a slow, deep breath, fighting the urge to do something rash and stupid. But she was so close, so passionate, and so blasted gorgeous. He held her waist and let himself wonder what it would be like to just give in after all these years.</p><p>	He couldn’t even remember when he had started feeling this way. When he was eight, they had received word that his aunt and uncle, the Prince and Princess Stepanov, had died in a carriage accident, leaving behind two young daughters. His mother, who had lost three children to fever, suggested raising the girls as their own rather than sending them to a boarding school. A week later, Sasha and her twin sister Vika had arrived at the Bukin manor.</p><p>	And somewhere in that time, Sasha had grown from a serious little girl to a beautiful woman.</p><p>	Sasha had dozens of childhood memories of chasing Vanya around in the gardens, pestering him about her dreams to become a famous chemist. She told him because everyone else would laugh or tell her that girls of noble birth did not study chemistry, and because she trusted him to keep her secret. She was hard to please and nearly impossible to impress, but Vanya made her feel safe, comfortable, free.</p><p>	At one-and-twenty, Vanya was still not formally betrothed, but Sasha knew better. She’d heard his parents talking about the Duchess Aliona Yagudina for the past decade. As the granddaughter of Grand Duchess Tatiana Anatolievna Tarasova, she was their first pick for a daughter-in-law, and they often spoke of her as if she was already his wife. She was much older and less handsome than Sasha, but for the Bukins, reputation always came before charm. Besides, Prince Andrei denounced marrying one’s cousin as a backwards European custom. So Sasha, even with all her beauty and fortune, could never win the hand of the man she adored.</p><p>	But she didn’t need his hand. She had his heart.</p><p>	Unless he was slain in battle. The thought sent a shiver down her spine.</p><p>	“Where’s Vika?” said Vanya.</p><p>	Sasha frowned. “She won’t come out. She’s been crying in her room all night.” She didn’t pull away, there was a hard edge in her voice that informed him she thought this was entirely his fault.</p><p>	He sighed. “Tell her I love her.”</p><p>	She took his face in her cold hands and forced him to look straight into her dark, piercing eyes. “Promise me you’ll come back.”</p><p>	“Of course.” The intensity in her gaze made him swallow hard. “I promise.”</p><p>	“I mean it.” She kissed his lips quickly, then pressed her forehead against his. “The second this war is over, you jump on the fastest horse and come riding straight back to Moscow.”</p><p>	“Sasha,” he said, laughing. “If I try to ride the fastest horse, I’ll fall off and break my neck, and no one will want to drag my body all the way back to Moscow.”</p><p>	“I’m serious.” She ran her thumb over the curve of his cheekbone. “You’re too precious to lose.”</p><p>	An urgent knock on the door startled him, and he let go of her. She stumbled back a few steps and scowled at the closed door. They both knew it was his mother before she even spoke.</p><p>	“Vanya! What’s taking so long? The army marches out of Moscow at seven-o-clock.” When he did not immediately respond, she added, “It’s twenty minutes after five!”</p><p>	“I’m coming, Mother.” Vanya took one last look at Sasha, whose jaw had locked into an iron clamp. “Just a minute.”</p><p>	“You need to come now. You can’t afford to be tardy for your first day of duty. Imagine what would happen if the son of Andrei Bukin arrived late and didn’t have time to greet General Mishin!”</p><p>	Vanya rolled his eyes. In fact, he wouldn’t be meeting up with Mishin for several weeks. The general had entrusted Commander Yagudin to escort the Moscow regiment to meet up with the Petersburg soldiers when they arrived in Austria. But his mother never listened anyways, so he didn’t correct her.</p><p>	“Just go,” Sasha mouthed.</p><p>	He sighed and turned his face away so he would not have to see her face as he left. He kept his eyes focused on the polished cedar of the door as he turned the knob and faced his mother.</p><p>	Princess Natalia Filimonovna Bestemianova Bukina was a tall, sturdy woman. In her youth, she had been a vibrant beauty; now she was handsome and respected rather than fair and pretty. Her red hair was curled under a blue-and-white headscarf, and she frowned with a self-importance that drew everyone to attention.</p><p>	“There you are,” she said. “Good heavens, we’ve been looking all over for you. Your father is waiting downstairs; he’ll see you off. Come, come, before the traffic lines up all the way to Petersburg!” She started walking away, clearly expecting him to follow. “Where the devil is Sasha? I sent Katya and Igor to check the gardens, but they haven’t seen her.”</p><p>	Vanya didn’t even bother to explain that Sasha had been in his room the whole time, and Princess Bukina didn’t bother to check. He kept his head down as he walked behind his mother, too much of a coward to look back at Sasha again.</p><p>	“Stand tall,” said Princess Bukina, hastening down the staircase with quick, aggressive steps. “Can’t afford to be slumping in front of General Mishin. He led all three wars your father fought in, so I fancy he’ll take a liking to you. But I swear, I don’t know what am I to do while you’re away! Vika is such an emotional girl, and Sasha thinks she can just flutter about like a ghost without telling anyone where she’s going. Mind you, they’re both such charming girls – and so pretty! But they need husbands, and your father fails to understand that time is not on our side! Heavens, they’re one-and-twenty – they should’ve both been betrothed by now. Oh, here’s your father now.”</p><p>	Vanya froze halfway down the staircase. His father was standing in the foyer, shoulders straight, hands behind his back. His gray hair swept back from his brow, airy yet neatly groomed, and his eyes were clear, sharp, and keen as an eagle’s. He nodded approvingly as Vanya appeared in his line of vision.</p><p>	“Here he is,” said Princess Bukina. “He was up in his chambers – fussing over his uniform, no doubt. I haven’t the slightest idea where he gets it from, although I can’t criticize him for wanting to make a good first impression on General Mishin.”</p><p>	The old prince’s eyes lifted with a secret smile. Vanya could hardly be called vain, especially not in comparison to his mother.</p><p>	“All right, all right, let us see the uniform!” said Princess Bukina, nudging Vanya hard in the arm. “Turn around, turn around.”</p><p>	Vanya spun in a slow circle, feeling like a young girl trying on gowns for her debutante ball. His mother clasped her hands and beamed proudly.</p><p>	“Capital, capital,” said his father. “He will serve his country excellently.”</p><p>	Vanya swallowed. There was no option to not serve excellently. The Bukins strived for perfection in everything.</p><p>	“He looks so handsome!” The princess clutched her hands to her chest. “Just imagine how he’ll look atop his charger in the hills of Austria!”</p><p>	Vanya closed his eyes. In reality, he would probably be clinging to the reins with white knuckles, thumping along the road with his legs flailing.</p><p>	“Oh, he’ll be quite the charmer,” his mother went on. She frowned and stuck her chin out. “Of course, he’ll be an honorable example of a soldier. Not like Prince Goncharov’s son – heaven knows he left dozens of illegitimate children behind after he came home from the Bosporus.”</p><p>	That sounded more like a threat than a piece of advice. Although Vanya’s easygoing attitude and sweet smile (and of course his family name) drew the attention of many pretty young women, he longed for only one, and he would never dishonor her like that. But it was damn hard sometimes.</p><p>	“Natasha,” Prince Bukin said with warning. Unlike his wife, he was reserved and stoic, and he winced every time she said anything remotely crude.</p><p>	Mitya, the tall, red-haired coachman, poked his head through the front door and bowed quickly. “Pardon me, pardon me. The coach is ready whenever Prince Ivan Andreyevich is available.”</p><p>	Vanya took a slow, shaky breath, trying not to focus on how his legs were quivering under him.</p><p>	“Make me proud, son.” His father lay his big hand over the epaulet of Vanya’s jacket. “The entire Bukin family is smiling down on you.”</p><p>	“Well, go on!” said Princess Bukina. “Heaven knows with his luck, he’ll be late for registration and the army will march off without him!”</p><p>	Prince Bukin closed his eyes and sighed, clearly out of patience with his wife’s constant fretting.</p><p>	Vanya forced his legs to carry him to the door, where Mitya was gesturing towards the carriage. He risked one last glance over his shoulder. His parents were standing in front of the massive family portrait in the foyer. The painter had portrayed them in traditional royal garb from over three hundred years ago. In the painting, his father held a golden staff, and his aging face was smoothed into youthfulness. His mother’s hair was abundant and luxurious, cascading down elegant shoulders and a perfectly straight back. The twins sat at their feet like two blonde angels, and at the center sat Vanya. He still remembered posing with one foot on a stool until his leg cramped while the artist tried to capture the perfect image of him. The face staring back at him was too stern, too composed, too flawless to be his own. His features were carved majestically, as if they were made of granite, and his hair was effortlessly slicked to his head.</p><p>	It was perfect. But it was not Vanya.	</p><p>	He lowered his eyes to his real parents, but all he saw was a pair of flawed people hiding in this oil-painted illusion. They had upheld this façade so long that they’d convinced themselves they were faultless. They truly believed they were the epitome of all things good in this world, and those who disagreed were simply too blind to see it. But they were the blind ones. They had shielded their own eyes with gold and glory so they would never face their own reflections.</p><p>	A cold, giddy thrill swam in Vanya’s stomach, and he turned away from his parents, towards the silver carriage gleaming in the first rays of the rising sun. Tomorrow, he would be marching with a regiment of ten thousand men into something strange, new, unknown. Tomorrow, his father’s expectations and his mother’s endless nagging could not find him. Tomorrow, he would begin his life as Ivan Bukin, not Andrei Bukin’s son.</p><p>He stepped into the carriage, shut the door, and didn’t look back at the house as Mitya whipped the horses to a swift trot.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Okay so obviously I don't support incest or anything, but I had to come up with a reason why Sasha and Vanya would have grown up together, and back in the 1800s, it wasn't considered taboo.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Woke Up to Find That Summer Had Gone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Liza squeezed her eyes shut against the dim blue glow hovering in the shadowy corners of the bedroom. It was the slightest shift in color, a single shade lighter than the black curtain of the moonless night that hung over everything, but to her, it was blinding. That sliver of light heralded the arrival of the morning she never wished to see.</p><p>	Her skin was damp with sweat, and she had rolled to the edge of the bed in her sleep, pulling all the covers with her. The bundle felt suffocating, and she flailed her arms and legs until she finally managed to free herself from the heavy mummifying cloth. The late August heat was thick enough to choke her.</p><p>	Of course, it was not really that warm; it was at least an hour before dawn, and the glory days of Moscow’s summer had already passed. But for Liza, the city seemed to grow hotter every day, and the heat was most scorching after nightfall. It had been like this all summer, like a countdown to the day the world finally went to hell. And today was that day.</p><p>	She rolled over in the bed. Her lady-in-waiting Betina was curled up on one side, her dark hair covering her face. No one ever asked why Betina slept in Liza’s bed when the Mishin mansion had twenty-five perfectly good rooms. And Liza didn’t feel like explaining. For all Petersburg society waved their feathered hats and talked about liberalism in French, they had this strange notion that a woman must pledge herself to a man to be of use to anyone.</p><p>	So Liza had decided to be very useless.</p><p>	It really was a miracle that no one had gossiped about this arrangement. By some act of God, Liza’s mother slept in the east wing, her father slept in Heaven, and the servants were wise enough not to bring a scandal upon the name of the honorable General Mishin’s granddaughter. Only Liza’s sister Sonya knew, and she seemed to find it far more amusing than appalling.</p><p>	Usually, Liza could blame her sleeplessness on a rendezvous with Betina, but not this time. They had just cuddled on the bed and talked all night. Liza couldn’t even remember what she had said, only that Betina had fallen asleep in the middle of telling her that everything was part of God’s plan and things would all work out in the morning.</p><p>	Liza groaned and slipped out of the bed, peeling her sheer ivory nightgown away from her skin. She had already bothered Betina enough last night, and she was certain the other person she trusted was wide awake right now.</p><p>	Sonya’s room was on the other end of a long corridor. Fastening a deep violet dressing gown around her shoulders, Liza tiptoed across the mahogany floor and turned the doorknob. The door was never locked, and it glided open soundlessly on its oiled hinges.</p><p>	Sonya was sitting by the window, her back to Liza. A single candle on the windowsill illuminated Sonya’s long hair, making it glow bronze in the flickering light. She was holding a book, but her eyes were on the horizon where the first whispers of blue had started to invade the night.</p><p>	“You can’t sleep either?” she said, not turning around.</p><p>	Liza sighed. “To be quite honest, I don’t know how anyone could.”</p><p>	Sonya set the book on the windowsill and pushed back her hair, looking over her shoulder at Liza. “Come in. We can talk.”</p><p>	Liza sank onto the bed, pulled the covers over her legs, and propped herself on one elbow so she could look at her sister. With her dark curls and hooded hazel eyes, Liza resembled their late father, while Sonya had the lighter hair and bright, energetic features of their mother. They were twenty-one and seventeen, respectively, and acknowledged as two of the most charming, attractive ladies in Petersburg.</p><p>	“Are you all right?” said Sonya, her face concerned. Usually, it was Sonya who came running to Liza’s room for comfort, not the other way around.</p><p>	Liza shrugged. “I just woke up and couldn’t get back to sleep.”</p><p>	Sonya sighed. “Me too. I tried reading, but it…it’s just not working. I can’t even focus on the words.” She bit her lip. “I’ve been trying to prepare for this for months, and I thought I would be all right, but now that the day’s here…it’s like finding out all over again.”</p><p>	Liza closed her eyes. She didn’t know what to say, but just being there with her sister calmed that raging restlessness, at least enough to let air back into her lungs and make the pulsing in her temples subside for a moment. </p><p>	It had been four months since Grandpapa had received the letter from the Austrian ambassador, begging him to lead a battalion of Russian troops west to drive Napoleon’s armies away from Austria. Although there were dozens of captains who would have dueled each other for the honor of commanding the army, the ambassador had specifically requested General Mishin, for he was the most decorated veteran in the Russian Empire.</p><p>	This would have been an excellent idea, had it been 1790 and Grandpapa was still fit to ride his charger into the heart of a battle. But the general had celebrated his eightieth birthday in March. No matter how skilled, how clever, how valiant he was, Liza knew the odds. Napoleon would kill him.</p><p>	Curse Grandpapa’s blasted pride, she thought for the thousandth time, curling her hand into a fist until the rough edges of her nails bit into her palm. He could have declined. He could’ve easily given the task to Plushenko or Yagudin, who were both young, able-bodied, and eager to spill French blood. But the old man would hear none of it. He would rather die in battle than stay home and watch Russia collapse through his bedroom window.</p><p>	“It’s not even so weird that they’re all going to war,” said Sonya. “It’s that they’re happy about it. I heard Aliev and Kolyada talking about it, and they acted like it was a grand adventure. They were excited to see Austria.” She frowned. “What, they think they’re going to get a guided tour of Vienna while they’re reloading their rifles?” Her voice cracked on the last word, and she closed her eyes.</p><p>	“They don’t understand what they’re getting themselves into,” said Liza.</p><p>	“And that’s the worst part! This war’s gotten to everyone – even Dima Kozlovskii’s swept up in it! Why do these men throw themselves into the jaws of death as if it’s fun?”</p><p>	In the chaos of the coming war, Liza had almost forgotten what had happened last month at their cousin Sasha’s debutante ball. Dima had arrived at the party in a stagecoach, stern and anxious. Five minutes later, he was running out the front door of the house, and he hadn’t returned. The next morning, he showed up to the Mishin house at dawn and asked Grandpapa how he could enlist in the Russian army. It was all too clear: he had made an offer, Sasha had rejected him, and now he was trying to forget her by joining the military.</p><p>	Dima was twenty, one year younger than Liza. The thought of him amongst the rifle shots, cannon blasts, and disease of the battlefield sickened her even more than the thought of Grandpapa’s fate. Grandpapa had served in a dozen wars; he knew the horrors he would face. But Dima? For all his philosophy and cleverness, he was still a boy.</p><p>	Liza swallowed. Unlike bubbly, emotional Sonya, Liza could rarely be brought to tears. It seemed a waste of joy, and to waste life was not in her nature. But when she opened her mouth to speak, all she could feel was the wet knot in her throat.</p><p>	“At least the Galliamovs have kept their heads,” said Sonya. “Truth be told, I think those boys are going to enjoy having half the men away at war and all these ladies waiting around for a proposal.” She made a face, but she was blinking too fast, trying not to cry.</p><p>	Sonya had made her debut last year, but it was merely a formality, and everyone knew it. Liza had been out for five years and was still not betrothed. They both carried the Mishin name, which was all the financial and social security a woman could need. As granddaughters of one of the wealthiest and most powerful men in Russia, they could pick and choose, and most men were afraid to even make an offer because their chance of rejection was so high. Of course, it was still expected that they would marry someday, but in the meantime, they were free to float about society.</p><p>	But at Sonya’s debutante ball, Grandpapa had made her a promise: whenever the time came for her to marry, he would walk her down the aisle. He had just returned from the last war and retired from the military. He had thought his last years would be spent in peace, watching his granddaughters establish themselves as the matriarchs of powerful families and maybe seeing some great-grandchildren before he went up to God. Instead, his last moments would be on a windy, bloody battlefield far from Petersburg.</p><p>	Someone knocked on the door, and Liza looked up. “Come in,” she called.</p><p>	A small head peeked inside. Even in the dim candlelight, Liza would recognize her godmother Babushka anywhere. She was holding a tiny candle of her own, but she was already fully dressed in a burgundy gown and jacket. No doubt she had been up all night and hadn’t even bothered to take off yesterday’s clothes.</p><p>	“Good morning, girls,” she said, slipping inside and closing the door silently. She was smiling, but it was the smile she gave when she was trying to soothe their cousin Misha’s baby son. “Your grandfather is downstairs. It’s still a few hours before he leaves, so he decided he wants to have breakfast here. I thought I’d let you know so you girls have a few minutes to get ready.” Sonya stiffened in her seat, and Babushka held up a hand. “Don’t worry, it’s nothing formal. Just wash your faces and put on day clothes. That is, if you want to see him.”</p><p>	“Of course we do!” said Sonya. “It’s just…I wasn’t expecting him so early!”</p><p>	Babushka laughed. “He said he wants to talk to both of you.” Sonya’s eyebrows shot up. “Don’t worry, it’s not bad news, I promise. The great General Mishin never delivers bad news over breakfast.”</p><p>	Liza and Sonya pulled on their day dresses and plaited each other’s hair in thick braids before making their way down to the mansion’s dining room. Usually, sunlight streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows and lit the polished marble floors and tapestry chairs with a heavenly glow. But today, the view through the glass was a deep, murky blue, and a candelabra lent the room a single glimmer of light.</p><p>	Mishin sat at the far end of the table, his head lowered. He was already dressed in his black military jacket, adorned with two rows of medals across the breast, but he did not look one bit like the fearsome general who had driven the Turks across the Bosporus. He looked like an old man – bald, wrinkled, and tired.</p><p>	“Grandpapa,” said Liza from the end of the table. “What is it?”</p><p>	“Sit down, sit down,” he said, gesturing to the chairs next to him. Liza sat on his left, Sonya on his right. The house was eerily quiet, and the sound of Liza’s chair scraping the floor through the rug was deafening.</p><p>	Mishin sighed and looked back and forth between the two girls. He frowned, then clasped his hands on the table. “Well, you both know what I must do today. It is my duty, and I could never regret serving my country. It would be unbelievably selfish of me not to go. Mother Russia is sending sons into battle, and I must do my best to bring them home safely.”</p><p>	“Please, Grandpapa, don’t say that,” said Sonya, biting her lip. “Please don’t talk about it.”</p><p>	“All right, then.” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “My duty is to Mother Russia, and I cannot abandon her. But at the same time, I have another duty – to my family. God has granted me several healthy children and grandchildren, and I will not leave this home until I know they are all safe.”</p><p>	“We’ll be fine, Grandpapa,” said Liza. A shiver of doubt darted across her skin, but she forced her face to stay smooth and unreadable. “We’ll manage.”</p><p>	“Oh, I have no doubt in your ability to take care of yourselves.” His mouth twitched into a little smile. “After all, you are Mishins. But there comes a time…there comes a time when all of us must take our place in this world.”</p><p>	Sonya frowned. “Yes, we understand that. But what does this have to do with us?”</p><p>	Mishin closed his eyes. “You are not children anymore. I have watched you both grow into smart, beautiful young women. You are more precious to me than you could ever know. In all my years of achievements, you are my greatest pride.”</p><p>	Sonya let out a little sob. Liza took a slow, deep breath, fighting tears. There would be plenty of time to cry after he left.</p><p>	“Both of you have come of age,” said Mishin. “You are women now, and you will now accept the responsibilities that come with adulthood. You have been the crown jewels of my family since you were born, and now it’s time for you to start families of your own.”</p><p>	Liza froze and stared at him, wide-eyed. The words seemed to stick inside her head like syrup, slow and thick and confusing. Sonya’s hand flew up to her mouth. Mishin’s face was stoic; this was no joke.</p><p>	“Find some good gentlemen – loyal, honorable, handsome lads. As my granddaughters, you will have first pick over any maiden in Moscow, but you must choose wisely. I will not see either of you bound to a man who does not care for you.”</p><p>	Gentlemen. The word sounded foreign and bitter to Liza’s ears, like a sudden shot of vodka. She coughed sharply.</p><p>	“Of course, Grandpapa,” said Sonya. “But why now? We don’t need to marry for money, and I’m not even eighteen yet.”</p><p>	Mishin sighed. “You, my dears, are young, but I am not. I don’t know how many more years God will allow me. So when I leave this world, I want to know my granddaughters are in good hands.”</p><p>	Betina has good hands, Liza wanted to say. And a beautiful smile. And a passionate heart. And everything a man could never have.</p><p>	“Grandpapa!” Sonya cried out. “Don’t say that! You can’t just die! Please.”</p><p>	Mishin smiled sadly. “It’s okay. I have cheated death several times in my life and outlived my own expectations. Dying now…it’s like coming home after a long voyage.” He patted Sonya’s cheek. “Someday, if fate is kind, you will be as old as I am, and you will understand.”</p><p>	Liza pressed her hands against her chest, as if she could feel the crack forming in her heart. Sonya just nodded, her lips trembling.</p><p>	“I want both of you to experience as much of life as I have,” he said. “Soon you will be wives, then mothers, then grandmothers, and when you finally climb to the Kingdom of Heaven, you will leave this world knowing you did everything you were meant to do. Do you understand why I want this for you?”</p><p>	Sonya bunched up her lips, considering. “I understand.”</p><p>	Despite the heat, Liza’s arms were covered in goosebumps. She tried to look at her grandfather, but his face didn’t form a cohesive image to her eyes. She couldn’t believe what she was hearing, yet at the same time she understood all too well.</p><p>	“That’s my girl.” Mishin tapped her head lightly. “Now, we need some breakfast! Alla! How long before the eggs are here?”</p><p>	The housekeeper popped her head around the corner. “Five minutes, sir.”</p><p>	Sonya chattered freely, asking Mishin about the road the army would take on its way to Austria, but Liza heard none of it. What did she care about open plains and mountain passes when her whole world had been torn from her hands?</p><p>	Betina. Her darling Betina. Her brave, strong, wild lover. That fierce, kind, brilliant soul. The penniless orphan who had come to the Mishin house with nothing but a willingness to earn a living. The tragic girl who had whispered a story in Liza’s ear about a drunkard father and two years walking the streets of Petersburg, catering to the most despicable creatures God had made.</p><p>	Men.</p><p>	The creatures Liza’s grandfather was asking her to marry.</p><p>	She didn’t speak as Mishin ate his breakfast, then pushed back his chair and started making his way to the foyer. Sonya followed him without hesitation, but Liza took several minutes dragging her body from her seat to join them. They were standing by the door, talking with Babushka and Liza’s mother.</p><p>	“Don’t worry about me,” Mishin said softly to Babushka. “Just take care of the girls.”</p><p>	Babushka sighed. “You know I can’t help worrying about you, so it’s pointless for you to tell me not to. But I’ll keep an eye on them. You can count on that.”</p><p>	“I know.” Mishin kissed her cheek, then shouldered his rifle. “Ah, I almost forgot how heavy it is!”</p><p>	Liza’s mother didn’t speak. Her face was schooled into a peaceful expression, but her silence suggested she would burst into tears and beg at Mishin’s feet if she opened her mouth.</p><p>	Mishin had no wife to see him off, for Tatiana Mishina had passed away when Liza was two years old. Her portrait still hung in the grand hall – a stately woman surrounded by her husband and five children. Was that to be Liza’s fate now, no matter how she adored the lady-in-waiting who had captured her heart?</p><p>	She was so absorbed in her thoughts that she didn’t realize her grandfather was leaving until he kissed her forehead.</p><p>	“Take care, Liza,” he said. “I love you.”</p><p>	All her resolve, her serenity, her carefully controlled emotions, snapped like a twig beneath the weight of a boot. She sobbed hard, her shoulders caving in, and buried her face in his shoulder. He patted her back gently.</p><p>	“It’s not fair,” she whispered. She wasn’t sure if she was talking about him leaving for war or leaving Betina.</p><p>	“No, it’s not.” He pulled back and wiped the tears from her cheeks with his thumb. “But it’s life.”</p><p>	Before she could respond, he slipped away and marched out the front door, still surprisingly agile for an old man. She ran to the doorway and watched him climb into the sturdy two-horse carriage waiting outside. The door clicked shut, the coachman spurred the horses, and the coach started to roll down the wide avenue on the embankment. By the time he reached the end of the road, she was crying too hard to see him.</p><p>	Someone nudged her elbow, and she turned. Sonya held up an embroidered violet handkerchief, an offer. Her own eyes were blurred with tears, but Liza hardly noticed as she grabbed the square of linen and mopped it roughly across her face, leaving diagonal wet streaks. She didn’t care. Her heart was too broken to care anymore.</p><p>	 “It’s going to be fine, loves,” said Babushka. But Liza knew those lowered eyes, the controlled shoulders, the way her teeth rested on her lower lip. If Babushka was afraid, there was something to fear.</p><p>	Liza turned away and ran up the staircase. She heard her mother and Sonya calling after her, but she didn’t stop running until she reached her room. She flung open the door and collapsed on the bed, her chest heaving with sobs. She didn’t even know which part hurt the most, only that the pain was suffocating her and she could never breathe again.</p><p>	A warm hand stroked the back of her neck, and she rolled over. Betina was sitting beside her on the bed, still wearing her wrinkled gray sleep clothes, her dark hair loose around her shoulders. And that was the most devastating part.</p><p>	“Liza,” said Betina.</p><p>	Liza hid her face in the coverlet. She couldn’t look up and see those enchanting eyes full of concern for her, those sweet lips she could never kiss again, that beautiful hair she longed to grasp in her hands until the shattering inside her stopped.</p><p>	“Liza,” Betina said again. “What’s wrong?”</p><p>	Liza couldn’t answer that.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Never Trust a Narcissist</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Three miles from the edge of Moscow, a large mahogany brougham rumbled down the road through the warm, twilit night. The horses had trudged across the countryside for two days from the isolated city of Perm and the vast Bakhusa Hills estate they called home. The stallions were darker than the coach, and the coachman in his dark clothes even darker than the stallions, creating a forbidding silhouette across the murky violet horizon.</p><p>	Inside the brougham, beneath the shadow of a black lace hat, Princess Ksenia cocked her head towards the window and curled her fingers inside her leather gloves to stop herself from gouging out the eyes of her companion.</p><p>	Across from her, Prince Nikolai Alexandrovich Morozov was recounting a story of an incident that had occurred at a civil servants’ meeting in Kazan. He smirked as he spoke, as if he found every mind-numbing word he spoke to be a captivating idea of historical significance. At four and forty years of age, his oiled hair was still black as pure ink, his eyes sharp and cunning, his face unnaturally smooth. His presence filled the carriage with an unsettling tingle, and she had the sudden conviction that every inch of the walls, floor, and cushions were covered in filth.</p><p>	She would have started a conversation with Annabelle, her charming and pleasant stepdaughter. But the girl’s head had lolled to one side over an hour ago, and her yellow floral hat had slipped over her closed eyes. How could someone sleep in the presence of such a man? How did her skin not itch with phantom spiders, her eyes not sting from one glance at him, her body shudder with horror at his disgusting lack of human decency?</p><p>	“And that is why I am no longer on speaking terms with Artemiev.” Prince Morozov laced his fingers together and leaned back against the burgundy velvet seat, a calculating smile on his lips. “So if a bald, rather unattractive gentleman approaches you at the soiree tonight and asks of my whereabouts, do not speak to him.”</p><p>	Ksenia frowned. It was impossible to keep track of all the men she was not supposed to speak to. It was no secret that Prince Morozov had made enemies with every man from St. Petersburg to Astrakhan. Between his corrupt business practices, his fanatic support for France’s emperor Napoleon, and his habit of bedding the wives of influential diplomats, he was no popular figure in society.</p><p>	The brougham climbed a steep hill, and the shifting stirred Annabelle. With perfect poise, she pushed the hat back from her eyes and blinked delicately, then smiled at her father. In recent years, the heiress to Bakhusa Hills had grown from a spirited child to a vibrant, pretty young woman. She had the rich brown curls, smooth skin, and merry laugh of her mother, Morozov’s late wife. In her high-waisted white muslin dress with yellow roses pinned down the bodice, she bore no resemblance to the grim, brooding father beside her.</p><p>	Ten minutes later, the coachman reigned in the horses in front of Deputat Mansion. The house was a two-story Neo-Classical building made of pale blue stone and white trim. Rows of windows gleamed with candlelight and the figures of dancing guests.</p><p>	Prince Morozov flashed that hideous smile and extended his hand to Ksenia. “Shall we?”</p><p>	Her gloved fingers clamped around his, and she stepped from the carriage, her heavy maroon skirts falling to the ground behind her. As they entered the mansion’s grand ballroom, heads turned and chatter rumbled across the polished marble floor. At seven-and-twenty, she was still a strikingly handsome woman, with smooth black hair, light olive skin, and the piercing dark eyes of a crow. She was neither tall nor stout, yet her presence took up space and demanded attention.</p><p>	The soiree had begun half an hour ago. Prince Morozov never liked to arrive on time. He believed that catering to another person’s schedule was the greatest form of public humiliation, so he never left home until he could ensure he would arrive late. It was his own small, personal victory, a reminder that he was a powerful man who bowed to no one. Besides, the dinner never started until seven-o-clock, and Morozov was not one for casual socializing.</p><p>	Across the room, a young lady in a large lavender hat lifted her head and waved a hand at Annabelle. Her smile was friendly, but her eyes shifted uncomfortably as she noticed the girl’s father beside her.</p><p>	“Look, Papa, it’s Zhenya Tutberidze,” said Annabelle. “I must go say hello to her, and Alina, and Lena Radionova, and Sima Sakhanovich, if she’s here.”</p><p>	“Yes, yes, of course, dear,” said Prince Morozov. “Besides, I must be off to see the Grand Duchess Tarasova, or she will certainly have me hanged for my imprudence.”</p><p>	Annabelle fluttered away into the crowd, drawing the attention of several young suitors as she giggled past. Ksenia swallowed as Prince Morozov took her arm in his cold, firm grip.</p><p>	“Come now, Susie,” he said. “It’s time to greet the guests.”</p><p>	He always called her Susie when he wanted something. Despite his hatred of all things liberal, Prince Morozov had taken such a fancy to the French lifestyle that he could no longer speak Russian without a Parisian accent. He signed his name as Nicholas, not Nikolai, and he expected all his acquaintances to embrace this culture. Apparently, this included renaming his wife in the French style, whether she approved of it or not.</p><p>	“Of course,” she said, her teeth nearly snapping together as she spoke. “Can’t afford to leave them disappointed.”</p><p>	The Prince and Princess Morozov had little in common with each other, but their one similarity was their hatred of social gatherings. The prince preferred to avoid the society of people who did not agree with his political opinions, and since his opinions were fairly unpopular, he avoided the society of nearly everyone. To him, the people of Moscow were small-minded, vulgar, and xenophobic, so isolated from European civilization that they could not be trusted. The people in St. Petersburg had adopted the fashions and attitudes of the French culture he adored, but with Napoleon’s recent advances in Austria, their sentiment towards France was decisively negative, and their loyalty to the feeble Tsar had grown disgustingly stronger. This disintegration of morality had driven him from his house in St. Petersburg to the Bakhusa Hills estate in Perm, where he could maintain his superior philosophies without being corrupted by the babbling of idiots. In Perm, there were only the serfs to bother him. Of course, they were babbling idiots as well, but at least their voices were not respected or acknowledged by figures of power.</p><p>	Despite his view of Moscow’s populace as a whole, he could not deny his daughter the education of a well-bred lady. Annabelle had been taught by tutors until the age of fourteen – clever, handsome young women from Paris and St. Petersburg who delighted in teaching such a sweet child. However, after Morozov’s ill-fated liaison with a particularly attractive piano teacher, word spread quickly of his reputation, and he had no choice but to send Annabelle to a school for gifted young ladies in Moscow. His only comfort came from Madame Dubreuil, the cultured and French-born headmistress, who would never dream of exposing Annabelle to the appalling crassness found in Russian society. Annabelle had spent the summer at Bakhusa Hills, but now the leaves had started showing their autumnal hues, and it was time for her to return to her place under the motherly wing of Madame Dubreuil.</p><p>	Princess Ksenia, on the other hand, had no objection to the residents of either city or the values they upheld. She had been born in St. Petersburg and fully embraced the liberal ideas that trickled through the city’s canals. Although she enjoyed the sophistication of French culture, she had no affection for Napoleon or his plans for Russia. Like her husband, she had a distaste for babbling idiots, but it was her firm belief that the greatest idiots were Napoleon and the Tsar, and both must be cast off to avoid catastrophe. She would have gladly mingled with the company at the party – she longed to speak to someone whose mind had not been numbed by the slow, icy winters of Perm or tainted with the imperialist, misogynistic evils of the Napoleonic Code. But whenever they were to be found at a soiree, Prince Morozov kept a close eye on his wife and ensured she would not talk to anyone he considered “unsavory company”. She was merely a prop for him, a rose in his buttonhole, something beautiful to be admired but never respected.</p><p>	In fact, image was the only reason why Prince Morozov ventured beyond Bakhusa Hills. Any man of importance must be seen, or he will fade from public memory. No matter how much he despised the petty people of Russia, he craved their attention. He enjoyed the hushed whispers that echoed behind him, the raised eyebrows and sudden discomfort that flooded a room at his arrival. He liked how men stood closer to their wives when he appeared, daring him to approach and make a conquest before a duel ensued. He liked how young debutantes in their pure white dresses blushed when he acknowledged them. He was a man of scandal, and he thoroughly enjoyed it. And most of all, he enjoyed how polished and worldly he looked next to these backwards Moscow fools.</p><p>	One thing he did not enjoy, however, was the presence of Grand Duchess Tatiana Anatolievna Tarasova. The woman had been a rash on the nethers of Moscow society for nearly half a century, and at seventy-four years of age, she showed no signs of slowing down. She was the epitome of those narrow-minded Moscow people who thought that vilely debasing Napoleon was a suitable form of dinner conversation. Every time their paths crossed, she looked upon him with a stern, judgmental eye and a sniff, as if he had fallen in a sewer and reeked of refuse. Of course, she had never forgiven him for romancing her favorite granddaughter, now the Princess Trankova. For heaven’s sake, it had been nine years ago.</p><p>	For her part, the Grand Duchess delighted in inciting arguments with Prince Morozov. She found his mere existence intolerable and considered him to be one of the five greatest shames to the Russian Empire. As the matriarch of a prominent family and a respected figure in Moscow’s elite society, it was her duty to dispose of scum that sullied the glory of these events with their presence. Letting him enjoy this party was like neglecting her duty to the Tsar.</p><p>	Even now, the old hag was making her way over to him. She was a large, imposing woman, dressed in a long-sleeved gown of heavy brown fabric with a surprisingly vivid pink shawl. Her silky blonde hair was pinned back with a series of combs that looked like barbed wire, and her deceptively pleasant face hardened into a scowl as she approached him. If Baba Yaga was a real person, she would look like the Grand Duchess Tarasova.</p><p>	“Good evening, Nikolai,” she said stiffly. “I trust you had no trouble finding the mansion.”</p><p>	“Of course, madam.” He nodded curtly, the most acknowledgment he would stoop to give her. “My coachman does not fail me.”</p><p>	“Oh, I wasn’t blaming the coachman.” She tilted her head up, sticking out her chin. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t lost on the rambling roads out of Perm.”</p><p>	“As you can see, I am perfectly alive and well.” He smiled ingratiatingly and patted her shoulder, and she bristled. “The news from Vienna has done wonders for my health.”</p><p>	The Grand Duchess pressed her painted lips into a knot and wrinkled her nose. “I think you’ll find the news from St. Petersburg far less satisfactory. General Mishin has marched west with an army of ten thousand men.”</p><p>	“You should not be so smug, Tatiana Anatolievna. The old fool is sending thousands of men to be slaughtered, and yet you use their misfortune as an opportunity to insult me.”</p><p>	“I have done nothing of the sort. It is merely a fact, and it is completely out of your control.” She jutted her chin out at him again, then turned towards his wife. “Good evening, Princess Ksenia. Do pardon my conversation with the mister. Clearly the prince of Perm has quite a penchant for debate!”</p><p>	Within seconds, the grand duchess’s face had completely melted into that of a pleasant grandmother. Prince Morozov still could not fathom why the old woman had taken such a fancy to Ksenia, but whenever they crossed paths, they spoke as if they were the best of friends. He found it unnerving and acutely offensive, as if Tatiana Anatolievna was conversing with his wife for the sole purpose of vexing him.</p><p>	A smile twitched on Ksenia’s lips. “And I should know him better than anyone.”</p><p>	The Grand Duchess laughed, high and loud, her head thrown back. “Bless you, my sweet girl. You must have the patience of a saint.”</p><p>	Prince Morozov almost snorted. Ksenia was neither patient nor sweet, at least not to him. Whenever he spoke to her, her face adopted this firm layer of sternness that honestly unnerved him a bit. But here she was, talking to his great enemy as though it was perfectly acceptable to laugh at a man of Napoleon’s greatness.</p><p>	Well, he certainly wasn’t going to stand around here and listen to this farce. In the corner, he spotted four young ladies, all dressed in the pastel shades of debutantes. Behind them, a woman in a gray fur stole with luxurious chestnut hair was sipping on champagne and talking to a dandy in a fashionable coat and a cashmere cravat. Ah, it was Madame Tutberidze and her daughters.</p><p>	He would have liked to join them – they were charming-looking girls, and Annabelle was well-acquainted with the eldest two, Evgenia and Alina. But Madame Tutberidze herself was nothing but a peasant from one of the southern oblasts who had married an elderly and wealthy landowner, and Prince Morozov would never imagine associating himself with such a person.</p><p>	So he turned his eyes elsewhere. The most frustrating part of Moscow was its lack of French women, or at least women educated in the French ways. Still, he could not help admiring the tall, slender blonde lounging by the buffet table in an extravagant feathered gown. Alexandra Andreyevna Bukina, the Grand Duchess’s granddaughter.</p><p>	He was not going to do anything rash, he reminded himself as he approached her. He had renounced his secret affairs when he had taken Ksenia as his wife, and he had not made love to another woman since their wedding two years ago. Of course, the silver band on his finger did not stop him from noticing beautiful girls, or giving them inviting glances, or bumping into them as an excuse to hear their musical voices, but he had a strict set of rules, and so far he had succeeded in not breaking them. Even before his marriage, he had flirted with any woman he found attractive, but he would not take them to bed unless they were from a respectable family. He would not risk creating a son with a common tavern wench. Besides, he already had eight illegitimate children to his name.</p><p>	As he slinked off towards the buffet table, the Grand Duchess lowered her voice and leaned in, her lips a few inches from Ksenia’s ear. “If your patience is running out, I’m sure the maid can slip something into his wine at supper.”</p><p>	Ksenia drew in a sharp breath. The thought sent a cool tingle across her skin, and she bit her lip, trying to keep her voice steady. “That won’t be necessary.”</p><p>	The old woman frowned and pulled back. “Well, if you need anything, you just blink.” She glanced over at the center of the room. “Why don’t you come with me and say hello to the Bukins? They’ve been asking about you lately.”</p><p>	“Sure, in a minute.”</p><p>	As the Grand Duchess walked away, surprisingly quick for her age and size, Ksenia pressed her hand over her heart, feeling the rapid beats through her glove. Grand Duchess Tarasova was one of the few people who knew the real reasons behind her marriage to that man. But Ksenia had never imagined she would acknowledge it so openly, or that she would not stop anyone who tried to send him to the gates of hell before his rightful time.</p><p>	At the center of the room, their hosts were in enthusiastic conversation with the Prince and Princess Bukin. Prince Andre Deputat was a young, vigorous man with passionate, handsome features. His long tailcoat was enlivened by the violet boutonniere blooming across his lapel, and he beamed with simple, almost childlike joy as he spoke. His wife Ekaterina, known in the fashionable world simply as Kitty, hung on his arm and laughed brightly at something he had said. Scarlet hair swept over her pale shoulders in lush curls, and her deep purple gown gathered neatly around her shapely figure. Despite the stress of three young children, she was as beautiful and lively as she had been on the night she’d captured Prince Deputat’s heart.</p><p>	Watching them filled Ksenia with an overwhelming feeling that this party, this couple and their affectionate glances, the giggling and carefree young women, belonged to a world that was not made for her, the way she knew that cuff links were not part of a lady’s wardrobe. She would never know that kind of love, would never look at the man she had married with anything but disdain.</p><p>	Marriages of convenience were not uncommon, especially in high society – the Bukins’ son Ivan had been betrothed to the Grand Duchess's granddaughter Aliona Yagudina since birth. With a sigh, she crossed the room and appeared just behind the Bukins.</p><p>	“Ah, Princess Morozova!” said Kitty Deputat, weaving over Princess Bukina’s shoulder to kiss Ksenia on both cheeks. “What a pleasure to see you again! It’s been too long!”</p><p>	“You know the old prince doesn’t let me out much,” Ksenia said. She didn’t mean to sound bitter, but sometimes it just slipped out.</p><p>	“Oh, that’s just because he’s afraid someone will steal you away!” Kitty laughed lightly and nudged Prince Bukin. “Isn’t she just stunning?”</p><p>	The old man was noncommittal. Kitty frowned attractively and shrugged. “Well, I think she looks amazing! Come on, let me get you a drink!” She took Ksenia’s arm and led her to a waiter in a crisp white jacket carrying a tray of champagne glasses. “Franz, we need two champagnes, if you please. Princess Morozova is here!”</p><p>	Ksenia took a goblet off the tray and took a long sip while analyzing Kitty’s gown. The neckline swept wide to reveal her graceful shoulders and long arms, and the abundant skirts flowed freely to the floor. In comparison, the sleeves of her own gown ran from her shoulders to her wrists, and the skirt was narrow and stiff. There was no decent tailor in Perm, so most of her clothes had to be sent from Moscow. Despite Morozov’s desire to see his wife in the ridiculously extravagant gowns worn by French courtiers, he had not yet succeeded in making her into a Josephine of his own.</p><p>	“I’ve missed you so much,” said Kitty. “How are you?”</p><p>	“Hmm, I’m all right.” Ksenia had grown so used to the silence of her life in Perm that even hearing her own voice in a crowd felt strange. “Nice to be out of the woods.”</p><p>	In truth, Prince Morozov’s manor was not in the woods at all, although a vast forest lurked about ten miles to the east. It sat high and mighty on a hill overlooking the wheat and corn plantations, with miles of open space for horseback riding. On cold winter mornings, Ksenia often saddled her ebony mare and galloped through the steep hills until her ears stung and the wind shocked color into her cheeks. It was the closest thing to freedom she could have.</p><p>	“I don’t know how you do it,” said Kitty. “Frankly, I’d go mad out there with all that empty land. I mean, I’m sure it’s quite beautiful, but I think I’d end up talking to the horses like a batty old lady!” She laughed. “How is your husband, by the way?”</p><p>	Ksenia blinked, not understanding the question for a moment. She never thought of him as her husband. A husband was a man with a beating heart and the capacity for compassion and morality, something he could never be. To her, he would always be Morozov, that dark, calculated psychopath to whom she had sold her body, but never her soul. In the two years they had been married, she had never called him Kolya, or Nikolai, and certainly never Nicholas.</p><p>	“He’s fine,” she said.</p><p>	“Oh, good.” Kitty took another sip of champagne. “Annabelle looks so splendid tonight. She’s grown so much – I do believe she is as tall as me now!”</p><p>	Ksenia’s eyes scanned the crowd for Annabelle. She was lounging near a potted fern and talking to a tall, striking young man in a gray tailcoat. Under the brilliant candlelit chandelier, she looked even more radiant and charming than usual. The man said something, and she let out a high, joyful laugh.</p><p>	It was only a few summers since Ksenia herself had loved these balls, back when men had been an amusement rather than a plague. At seventeen, she’d been a brilliant debutante in St. Petersburg, and when she’d received a proposal from the merchant Minchuk, everyone had declared it was a perfect match. No one talked of Minchuk’s quick temper, or his complete lack of affection for her, or the wince that crossed his face whenever she spoke.</p><p>	And no one imagined that after her third miscarriage, he would exile her to a convent for the rest of her life so he could remarry and produce an heir.</p><p>	It had been four years since that day, but the memory still made her shudder. They had cut off her hair, stripped her of her clothes, and dressed her in heavy black robes, like a corpse being prepared for burial. He had sent her there to die, and it was only due to her own cleverness and courage that she was alive today. Even if she sometimes wondered if the life she lived was really living at all.</p><p>	Her name was meaningless now; as far as society was concerned, the young and lively Countess Ksenia Andreyevna Stolbova was as good as dead. There was only Princess Ksenia Morozova, the mysterious wife of the most hated man in Russia. When people saw her, they saw a woman past her prime with no family and no title who had somehow captured the heart of a wealthy and influential nobleman. They truly believed she was the lucky one in this arrangement.</p><p>	“Has she spoken of any gentleman callers lately?” Kitty’s voice shook Ksenia back to the present moment – the ballroom, where the couples were starting to line up for the first dance of the evening.</p><p>	“Annabelle? Oh, who knows? Every time she writes home, she’s talking about someone new.” It seemed Annabelle had been blessed with her mother’s beauty, but when it came to lovers, she had her father’s attention span.</p><p>	Kitty laughed. “Let her have her fun. I was quite a fright at her age, but as you can see, I found my dear Andreyushka soon enough, and we are perfectly contented together.” She subconsciously ran a hand down the front of her dress, lingering on her stomach, and Ksenia raised an eyebrow.</p><p>	“Again?”</p><p>	Kitty smiled and nodded vigorously. “But it’s a secret. I haven’t even told Andreyushka. So you can’t breathe a word of it, or it will ruin the surprise!”</p><p>	“I wouldn’t dream of it.”</p><p>	Something about the interaction felt strange to Ksenia. She had never wanted children, and she had never blamed herself for the unfortunate luck that had condemned her to the convent. It wasn’t that she disliked children, but every time she tried to picture herself as a mother, she saw only a blank wall in her mind.</p><p>	A loud shout made them both look up. Two of the young men had started arguing in the center of the ballroom. From what Ksenia could make out, they had both asked the same lady to dance.</p><p>	“Oh, dear,” said Kitty. “I should go take care of that.”</p><p>	She bustled across the dance floor, casual yet commanding. She didn’t raise her voice or gesture about, but within a few minutes, the boys were both stumbling back, mumbling apologies, and shuffling away.</p><p>	“Susie, darling!”</p><p>	Ksenia bit down hard on her lip and turned around, and the brilliant lights of the ballroom were replaced by Morozov’s bloated, smug face. He smiled at her and grabbed her arm above the elbow. It was a silent command: dance with me.</p><p>	She knocked back the rest of the champagne and set the glass on the edge of the nearest flowerpot. She was going to need a lot more of that to get through the night.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Falling for You When You are Worlds Away</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Zhenya Tarasova groaned as dawn slipped through the sheer muslin curtains and tiptoed to her bed. It cast a strange yellow hue across the pale blue walls, the pastel tapestry chairs, and the white armoire and bedposts, like a fever dream. She squeezed her eyes shut and opened them slowly, although she already knew she would still see sunlight when she looked again.</p><p>	The daylight had not awakened her. She had been awake for two hours, pacing and fretting and rubbing her temples against the headache that refused to stop. Finally, she had collapsed on her mattress and tried to ignore the climbing sun, knowing she would never truly sleep.</p><p>	It had been three weeks since the troops had marched out of Moscow, but she remembered every minute of that day as if it had been branded behind her eyelids.</p><p>	Quarter past two in the morning, a stone had hit her window. She had been lying awake again, but her legs were not numb under the blankets, her heart was not twisting with pain, and the fluttering in her stomach was excitement, not fear. She eased herself up onto one elbow and tiptoed to the mirror, flipping her shimmering blonde hair to one side, and raised the sash of the window.</p><p>	Her bedroom was on the second floor, but a stout network of vines grew alongside the mansion, and a series of carvings on the façade provided several footholds. A large, strong hand grasped the edge of the windowsill, and moments later, her lover climbed into the room. She threw her arms around him and breathed in deeply. It had been only a week since she’d seen him, but it felt like a lifetime.</p><p>	“Zhenya, I’m here,” he whispered, pushing her hair back from her face. In the dim moonlight, she could see only a flash of his red hair and the outline of his tall, broad frame. She stood on her toes to kiss his cheek, then laughed as he picked her up to kiss more firmly on the lips.</p><p>	“I’ve missed you, Vovan.” She ran her hand along his cheek, tracing the freckles she couldn’t see in the dark but knew by heart. “It’s been too long.”</p><p>	“Then maybe you should let me sneak in on Wednesdays too, like I told you I would.”</p><p>	“You know I can’t do that! It’s dangerous enough to let you come once a week. We can’t let Grandmamma find out.”</p><p>	Vovan sighed and set her back on her feet. “I swear, if there’s a man coughing in America, your grandmamma knows.”</p><p>	Zhenya laughed, but it nudged a small, hard bean of bitterness in her chest. She knew she was blessed to come from a good family. She knew that thousands of hungry serf girls would throw themselves under the wheels of a train to be the granddaughter of Grand Duchess Tatiana Anatolievna Tarasova. She knew that as a high-born lady, it was her duty to respect her elders’ decisions and obey their wishes.</p><p>	But sometimes, her grandmother had a lot of wishes to be obeyed.</p><p>	“She means well,” Zhenya said. She wasn’t sure if she was trying to convince Vovan or herself.</p><p>	Vovan frowned in the darkness. “I don’t doubt it. And Cinderella’s father meant well when he wanted to give his daughter a second mother.”</p><p>	“Don’t say that! She’s a good woman.” Zhenya swallowed. “She just…she doesn’t understand love.”</p><p>	He bit his lip. “Did you try talking to her about me?”</p><p>	She closed her eyes and took a slow, deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart. She had been dreading this question all week, and her lips could barely form the words. “I did.”</p><p>	She didn’t need to tell him her grandmother’s answer. He already knew.</p><p>	He took a step back from her, and she felt the warmth of his body leave. “It’s because of my father, isn’t it?”</p><p>	“Yes.”</p><p>	Vovan looked at her, then the bed, then the table beside the headboard. Without warning, he wheeled and knocked the unlit lantern off the tabletop. It crashed on the polished floor with a clank, and Zhenya covered her mouth, as if she could silence the sound.</p><p>	“Damn him,” he said, not bothering to be quiet. “Damn him and all his blasted habits!”</p><p>	“Vovan!” She retrieved the lamp and placed her hand on his chest, trying to hush him before Grandmamma came running, but she felt like cursing too. He relaxed under her touch.</p><p>	“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m just so sorry.”</p><p>	“Please, don’t blame yourself. It’s not your fault.”</p><p>	“No, it is. You deserve better.”</p><p>	“Vovan, I love you.” She buried her head in his neck, her voice cracking. “I love you, and no matter who your father is, I’ll never stop loving you.”</p><p>	He stroked her hair, then crumpled it in his fist. “I hate him.”</p><p>	“Don’t.” She pulled back and held his face in her hands, sobs building in her throat. “You can’t change who he is, so forgive him. It doesn’t matter to me – I love you.”</p><p>	“It matters to me.” He slipped out of her hold and turned towards the window. “We’ll never be able to marry, and I swear to God, I’m not one of those cads who’ll elope with a girl without any plans of marrying her. I’m not like that.” His words, although quiet, were angry enough to break stones.</p><p>	“I’m just so sorry!” She wrapped her arms around his shoulders from behind. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>	He laughed bitterly. “Are you apologizing for being rich and honorable? Mercy, Zhenya.”</p><p>	“Now you understand how ridiculous it is for you to apologize for your father’s actions.”</p><p>	“That’s different.” He turned around and put his hands on her waist. “Your grandmother has every right to be concerned.”</p><p>	“But you’re not your father.” She kissed his lower lip, then touched his upper lip with the tip of her tongue. “You’re not like him at all.”</p><p>	It was bloody awful luck that Vovan’s father happened to be the most notorious and hated man in Russia. Between his unscrupulous business deals and endless womanizing, Prince Nikolai Morozov had acquired a host of enemies from Kaliningrad to Vladivostok. And his greatest enemy was Zhenya’s grandmother.</p><p>	Zhenya – along with every other member of the Tarasova family – still remembered the incident that no one talked about but everyone knew about. Nine years ago, Prince Morozov had made advances towards Zhenya’s older sister Tanya, a beautiful but naïve debutante. No one knew exactly what had happened, but Zhenya guessed that the prince had tried to run away with Tanya and sully her honor, and the Grand Duchess had vehemently declared him a “deplorable son of a goat” in front of twenty guests at one memorable supper.</p><p>	“I really tried to persuade her,” said Zhenya. “I even told her about how he’s trying to be better lately.”</p><p>	Vovan laughed with no real humor. “Nothing really changed. She has a wedding ring, but she’s still young, beautiful, and disposable.”</p><p>	Two years ago, Prince Morozov had married his daughter’s governess, an enigma that continued to baffle Moscow society. Ksenia – or Susie, as he called her – was a clever, handsome woman, but no one had the faintest idea what family she hailed from. Although she had no noble title, she was well-versed in politics and economics, and Vovan often mentioned that she seemed to be Morozov’s superior in intellect. At seven-and-twenty, she was the eldest of his consorts thus far, but she was still seventeen years his junior and only two years older than Vovan, her eldest stepson. Zhenya had glimpsed her at the few society parties where Prince Morozov dared to show his face and had the impression of a mysterious, fascinating woman who had dozens of secrets behind her dark, captivating eyes.</p><p>	Despite his weakness for women, Morozov had only been married twice. His first wife, Annabelle’s mother, had passed away at least fifteen years ago. According to Vovan, her death had sent him into a downward spiral of alcohol, depression, and morphine, and he had sought to fill the empty space in his life with mistress after mistress. Usually, he kept one for a year until he became bored or the liaison produced too many illegitimate children – eight such children had been born in that way, Vovan included. But since his fortieth birthday, he had started drinking less, stopped chasing after debutantes, and made Ksenia his wife.</p><p>	“Zhenya.” Vovan’s voice startled Zhenya back to the present moment. “You know, the soldiers are leaving for Austria in five days.”</p><p>	She blinked. “Yes?”</p><p>	He slid his hand up her back and cradled her cheek. His hand was so big, it almost covered half her face, like a scarf. “I’ve been thinking.”</p><p>	“About what?”</p><p>	He sighed. “About the war.”</p><p>	“Why? Everyone will be fine. Uncle Yagudin says the troops will ‘crush the French like a grape.’” She laughed, rolling her eyes at her uncle’s constant bravado. “And Max is like an ox – if three bottles of pure vodka can’t kill him, the French can’t, either.”</p><p>	“No, I’m not talking about Yagudin and Max.” Vovan’s thumb traced her cheekbone. “I’m thinking about enlisting tomorrow.”</p><p>	The words hit her like a slap, and she staggered back. “No! No! Vovan, are you insane?”</p><p>	“Zhenya, just listen to me!” He caught her shoulders in his strong grip. “Your grandmother won’t let us get married if I don’t.”</p><p>	“What does that have to do with us?”</p><p>	“She doesn’t think I’m good enough for you because I’m the bastard son of Nikolai Morozov. That’s all she sees when she looks at me. But when I come back from the army, she’ll see a brave soldier who risked his life for his country. And you know how much your grandmother loves Russia.”</p><p>	“That’s not going to work!” She shook him off and threw up her hands in frustration, and this time, he didn’t try to hold her. “You could die. What good will it do if you die?”</p><p>	“Zhenya, please.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “Living like this, loving you and knowing I can never marry you…that’s worse than dying for me.”</p><p>	She opened her mouth to protest, but all that came out were sobs. She covered her face with her hands and cried hard, wincing at how perfectly his plan made sense. He was right, and they both knew it.</p><p>	“I don’t want to go,” he said. “In a perfect world, your grandmother would bless the marriage and I could stay here with you forever. But that’s not how the world works, and I can’t just spend the rest of my life waiting for a blessing that’ll never come.”</p><p>	“You don’t understand!” she shrieked, dropping her hands. She knew she was being too loud, but she didn’t care. “Who am I if you die?”</p><p>	“Zhenya, stop!” He caught her face in his hands and kissed her, long and hard. She sobbed softly, and he wiped away her tears with his thumb. “I’m going to be fine. I’ll come home with a medal from the Tsar, and your grandmother will finally see me as more than Nikolai Morozov’s illegitimate son.”</p><p>	“Please.” She tilted his face down so she could press her forehead into his. “Please.”</p><p>	“I’ll always come back for you.” He kissed her again, three small, sweet kisses. “Forgive me.”</p><p>	Then his lips were gone, his hands were gone, and he had one foot on the windowsill. She tried to move, but her body was frozen. By the time she managed to cry out, he was already vanishing down the trellis, ready to run into certain doom.</p><p>	She hadn’t seen him since that day.</p><p>	Now, sitting on her bed as the light demanded her to rise, Zhenya covered her mouth to stop herself from crying all over again. She hadn’t even said goodbye to him, and now he was on his way to Austria, where he would be greeted by French muskets.</p><p>	Of course, she wasn’t the only person who had something to lose in this war. Tanya’s husband Max would be on the frontlines, and Yagudin had left behind a wife and several children. But all of them were allowed to suffer from their lover’s absence in public. Zhenya’s feelings for Vova could never see the light of day.</p><p>	“Please,” she whispered, just as she had on the last night she’d seen him. But this time, she was not begging him to stay. She was praying that he would come home.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Only the Young Can Run</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>By the time the Moscow regiment had reached the Russian border to join with the troops from Petersburg, the soldiers’ boots were riddled with holes. Although September had brought a whisper of the cold to come, mosquitos were still rife, and the troops often elbowed each other while trying to slap the bothersome creatures on their necks and uniforms. </p><p>	Prince Alexei Yagudin, commander of the Moscow regiment and Grand Duchess Tarasova’s son-in-law, was one of the few men blessed with a horse. He claimed that it was necessary for him to ride so he could see danger up ahead, and no one mentioned that he was riding behind twenty escort guards who were blocking his view anyways. In truth, Yagudin was too proud to admit he had spent so much time in mansions with feathered pillows and maids that he feared to set his soft leather boots on the dirt road. He believed a true man must be hardy, but a rich man must be comfortable.</p><p>	But for most of the soldiers, this march meant nothing but aching feet and dirt stains on their uniforms.</p><p>	By the time the two regiments met and began setting up camp in a wide field speckled with a few scraggly trees, Fedor felt weak enough to faint. He hadn’t eaten since last supper, his throat was as dry as the shell of a walnut, and his legs were so sore he could barely stand. He was a strong, lean man of nine-and-twenty, and his body ached in sympathy for the other soldiers who were not blessed with youth or fitness and still attempted to make this exhausting journey.</p><p>	Groaning, he staggered to the woodpile and halfheartedly tossed a log on the fire two men were trying to ignite. He would’ve much rather used the log as a stool and rested his blistered feet, but he reminded himself that the other men must be as tired as he was, and he had no excuse to sit like a king while the others tried to build a fire.</p><p>	But the minute the flames bit into the wood and the men who’d been lighting it stepped back to wipe their brows, Fedor wasted no time sitting down at the edge of its heat. The grass was sparse, letting soil poke through and stain his trousers, and he winced. Those striking military portraits really did no justice to the filth of this occupation.</p><p>	A young soldier approached the edge of the fire. Judging by the design of his uniform, he must be from the Petersburg regiment. “Pardon me. May I sit here?”</p><p>	“Of course,” said Fedor. “The fire’s open for everyone.”</p><p>	The other man flashed a relieved smile and plopped down next to him. He was taller and broader than Fedor, but his face was young – he couldn’t have been more than twenty. His eyes were the brilliant blue of a springtime sky, and despite his good manners, he had a casual confidence and an impish charm.</p><p>	“I’m Kozlovskii,” he said. “I’m from Petersburg. And you would be?”</p><p>	“Klimov. From Moscow.”</p><p>	“Good to meet you, Klimov.” Kozlovskii craned his neck, looking around at the other soldiers building fires. “My family has a dacha in Moscow. It’s a capital place to live.”</p><p>	Fedor shrugged. “It’s nice. In fact, I used to live in Petersburg.”</p><p>	“Really?” Kozlovskii’s eyes were full of boyish delight. “It’s the most beautiful place on earth! Why did you leave?”</p><p>	“For many reasons.” Fedor turned his hand over, studying the lines of his palm. “For one, my mother fell ill, and the winters in Petersburg didn’t agree with her health.” He smiled. “Although I can’t say Moscow’s winters are much milder!”</p><p>	Kozlovskii laughed. “It’s not exactly the Black Sea here! Sometimes, my family spends their summers there. We would go with another family, the B…” He broke off and blushed. “So, are you married?”</p><p>	Fedor picked up a short stick from the ground and twisted it in the dirt. “No.”</p><p>	“Me neither. What brings you to the army?”</p><p>	A rueful smile pulled up the corners of Fedor’s mouth. “Well, truth be told, I have done nothing with my life.”</p><p>	Kozlovskii grinned. “I think most of us could say the same! The meaning of life seems to be a great mystery, is it not?”</p><p>	“Truly. And to be honest, I don’t know if it’s meant to be solved.”</p><p>	“All mysteries are meant to be solved. But not all solutions are things you want to know.”</p><p>	Fedor sighed and stared into the pulsing heart of the fire. There were many other reasons why he had left Petersburg, and many other reasons why he’d chosen to join the military. He liked young Kozlovskii and felt at ease in his presence, but there were some secrets he did not dare speak aloud to anyone in fear they would overwhelm him and stop his heart.</p><p>	A tall soldier with a thin mustache and slicked black hair approached the burning pile, carrying a small barrel of wine. “Come on, men, we’ve got fire and wine over here!” He sat down on the ground about five feet from Fedor. “Comrade Klimov! It’s good to see you here.”</p><p>	“Likewise,” said Fedor. He knew this man from the agriculture bureau where they were both employed – Prince Maxim Leonidovich Trankov. They didn’t speak often, since Trankov worked on papers in the upper offices and Fedor dealt with the clients, but he had always struck Fedor as an outspoken, energetic man who did as he pleased.</p><p>	“And who might this be?” said Trankov, gesturing to Kozlovskii. “No beard, silver epaulets, gold buckles on your boots – yes, I reckon you’re one of General Mishin’s grandnephews!”</p><p>	Kozlovskii blinked. “Actually, I am acquainted with the general, but we are not related. I’m Prince Dmitri Kozlovskii.”</p><p>	Trankov’s eyes widened. “Oh, of course, the Kozlovskiis! I do recall meeting them while they were staying in Moscow a few years ago. By the way, how is the Grand Duchess Moskvina? I hear she is getting up in years.”</p><p>	Kozlovskii smiled. “She’s just as lively at nine-and-seventy as she was at nine-and-twenty. Although of course, I did not know her when she was nine-and-twenty!”</p><p>	“What humor, my boy!” Trankov clapped him on the shoulder. “And I presume all else is well in the Moskvina family?”</p><p>	A splotch of color splashed across Kozlovskii’s cheeks, and he swallowed. “I haven’t been in touch with them recently, sir.”</p><p>	Trankov raised his eyebrows, a question, but he did not ask it. “Oh, I understand, there’s little time for communication in times of war. Never mind, I’ll just ask Mishin.” He opened the barrel of wine and started filling a set of cheap cups. “It’s not exactly the spring ball here, is it? My boots are falling apart, I’ve got mud in places I didn’t even know I had, and somewhere underneath all the grime, I swear I have mosquito bites on every inch of my body. I now understand why soldiers get medals when they come home – it’s not for how many enemies they killed, it’s for how many miles they marched in this dirt.”</p><p>	Fedor was not one to complain, but as he glanced at the spot on his right boot where the sole had started to flap away, he couldn’t help agreeing. “Well, I’ll admit I expected a bit more pomp and circumstances.”</p><p>	Trankov laughed. “You want pomp and circumstances? You should go take a look at Yagudin. The man’s literally riding a racing stallion across miles of uneven terrain! If he keeps going like this, that horse will keel over in the middle of the battle.”</p><p>	“I feel sorry for the poor horse,” said Enbert, who had sat down a few feet away from Trankov while the other men were talking. He was a well-spoken, amiable young German officer who had married one of Grand Duchess Tarasova’s granddaughters. Tall and broad even when sitting, he had a handsome face with sweet eyes and a small mole over one eyebrow. “But to be quite honest, I don’t understand anything Yagudin does.”</p><p>	“That’s because he’s an idiot,” said Trankov, shaking his head. “Lord knows, I can’t wait to see who’s leading the troops from Petersburg.”</p><p>	“It’s General Mishin, isn’t it?” said Fedor.</p><p>	Enbert shook his head. “No, they said his name is Plushenko. I tried to see him when the Petersburg regiment arrived, but I haven’t been able to find him.” He smiled. “Of course, it doesn’t help that I haven’t the slightest idea what he looks like.”</p><p>	“He’s quite young, actually,” said Kozlovskii. “No more than five-and-thirty. Middling height, I guess, and blond. I believe he has two young sons, and his wife is a socialite in Petersburg.”</p><p>	Trankov lifted a finger in enthusiasm. “Wait, isn’t she Rudkovsky’s daughter? I heard they’re a big deal in the mining business.”</p><p>	“What does it matter what he looks like or who his wife is?” said a young officer, lounging on one side with his head propped on his hand. Fedor did not recognize him, but he was thin and pale with short brown hair sticking up on end. His breath already smelled of liquor, although the wine had barely started to flow yet.</p><p>	“I don’t believe we’ve met,” said Enbert. “Alexander Enbert. What’s your name?”</p><p>	The young man frowned. “Kovtun.”</p><p>	Trankov turned towards him. “Oh, I know you. You’re the Countess Sotnikova’s brother.”</p><p>	Kovtun scowled. “And what if I am?”</p><p>	Fedor winced. There was something about this fellow that he did not like, a certain insolence and brashness that did not bode well for a soldier. Still, he nodded in greeting. “I’m Fedor Klimov. Pleasure to meet you.”</p><p>	Kovtun barely nodded back. “This whole march is dumb. I mean, we could all get there so much faster if Yagudin let us use horses.”</p><p>	“Capital,” said Kozlovskii. “But getting horses for every soldier in the army would be a ridiculous price, even for the Tsar himself. It’s simply not feasible.”</p><p>	“Well, we don’t need horses for everyone,” said Kovtun. “Just for the people who need them. You know, I’m a count.”</p><p>	Trankov frowned. “I thought your sister married into her title.”</p><p>	“So?” Kovtun glared pointedly. “Anyhow, it doesn’t matter. The sooner we get to Austria, the better. I can’t wait to get out there on the field and kill those stupid French men. And you know what’s the best part about killing Frenchmen?”</p><p>	Enbert’s brows drew together. “I confess, I don’t think there’s a ‘best part’ about killing any men, French or otherwise.”</p><p>	“Frenchwomen!” said Kovtun, as if it was obvious. “What do you think all those broads will do after their husbands and fathers get killed off?”</p><p>	Fedor tilted his head, trying to ignore the unease mounting in his chest. “Go on living as widows and raising their children?”</p><p>	Trankov gave the smallest shake of his head, and Fedor winced. Clearly, Kovtun had other plans.</p><p>	“Think about it!” said Kovtun. “A whole village of women with no men to stop us. Sounds like paradise to me.”</p><p>	Fedor shifted forward. There was something sinister behind Kovtun’s words that made him squirm, and he opened his mouth half an inch, ready to say something, but Kozlovskii spoke first.</p><p>	“You’re joking, right?” His voice was loud, almost incredulous. “You can’t seriously be suggesting that we take women from the villages as if they’re plunder.”</p><p>	Kovtun cocked his head. “Well, it’s open to interpretation.”</p><p>	Fedor gasped, every nerve in his body tensing. How could this man, who wore the colors of the Russian army, speak so crudely? How could he lie here amongst his comrades and talk of women – French or otherwise – as nothing more than trophies to be won?</p><p>	“Are you mad?” Kozlovskii was sitting bolt upright, his eyes wide open and gleaming blue even in the firelight. “What do you think we are, savages?”</p><p>	“Oh, don’t get so huffy, Your Highness. Really, I couldn’t care less if you want to take a wench or not.”</p><p>	“Well, I care!” Kozlovskii’s fists were clenched. “You’re despicable!”</p><p>	“Kozlovskii!” Enbert put a hand on the young man’s back. “He’s not worth it.”</p><p>	But before anyone could stop him, Kozlovskii sprang to his feet and knocked Kovtun flat on his back. Kovtun flailed, but Kozlovskii delivered a strong punch to his jaw that snapped above the crackling of the fire. Fedor jumped up, searching for an opening to pull the two men apart. Enbert grabbed Kozlovskii’s shoulders while Trankov hauled Kovtun to his feet by the back of his collar. Fedor stepped in beside Enbert and caught Kozlovskii’s arm, trying to keep a safe distance between his captive’s shaking fists and the violent curses spitting from Kovtun’s mouth.</p><p>	“That’s enough, that’s enough!” said Trankov. He held Kovtun at an angle and scowled. “Do you want General Mishin to send you home? Or are you going to shape up and apologize?”</p><p>	“He hit me!” Kovtun sputtered.</p><p>	“Yes, yes, we can see that,” said Enbert. “It won’t happen again.”</p><p>	Kozlovskii made no reply, but his face was still flushed with anger. Slowly, Enbert released his shoulders, and Fedor let go of his arm. Kovtun glared at Kozlovskii for a moment, then staggered off towards the city of tents gathering beyond the light of the fires.</p><p>	“What a brat,” said Trankov. “When they said we’d be fighting a bunch of fools, I thought they’d be French.”</p><p>	Kozlovskii was panting hard, and a thin line of blood marked his mouth where he had bitten his own lip. “I’m sorry. I just…I couldn’t listen to him talking like that.” His lower lip was trembling, and Fedor could’ve sworn the glisten in his eyes was from tears rather than the firelight. “I’m sorry.”</p><p>	“It’s okay,” said Enbert. “But watch your fists next time.”</p><p>	Trankov dusted off his trousers. “Well, that was exciting! I suppose I should help put up some of those tents so we have a place to sleep before midnight. Lord knows, it’ll be another early morning. Come on, Enbert, let’s go.”</p><p>	As Trankov and Enbert made their way to the group of tents, Fedor turned to Kozlovskii, who was still trembling. Standing up, he was imposingly large, but his face belonged to a scared boy trying too hard to be mature and upset with himself for losing his temper.</p><p>	“I don’t blame you,” said Fedor. In truth, there was a small part of him that wished he had been the one who had snapped, who had shoved Kovtun to the ground, who had wiped that smug grin off his face. “I can’t believe he’d say such things.”</p><p>	“Thank you.” Kozlovskii sighed heavily. “I didn’t mean to. I was trying…but when he talked about the Frenchwomen like that…they’re still women, you know? My mother taught me to do no lady harm, ever since I was a boy.”</p><p>	Fedor nodded. “My mother taught me the same. It’s admirable, really.”</p><p>	Kozlovskii smiled, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his fist. “I’m glad to know not everyone in this army is a fool.”</p><p>	Fedor laughed softly. “I am a fool in many ways. Being respectful and being wise are two different things.”</p><p>	“That’s true.” Kozlovskii ran his hand through his hair and groaned. “Klimov, I need advice, and you seem sane enough to trust.”</p><p>	“Well, I’ll take that as a compliment. What can I help you with?”</p><p>	The young man sighed. “I don’t know whether I should write home to someone or not.”</p><p>	Fedor smiled. “That depends. Are you on amiable terms with this person?”</p><p>	“That’s the problem! I don’t know!” Kozlovskii squeezed his eyes shut. “A few weeks ago, I asked her to marry me. And she refused. So I signed up for the army. But I don’t belong here. And I want to go home. But I can’t face her. And I don’t want to let General Mishin down. And I want to serve Mother Russia. But I don’t want to hurt anyone.” He buried his face in his hands. “I can’t just desert the army. That’s treason.”</p><p>	“Well, first of all, calm down.” Fedor spoke softly, trying to ease the tension that seemed to be stitched through every cell in Kozlovskii’s body. “We haven’t even gotten to the first battle yet. I don’t know if he’s right, but Yagudin said it should be a short conflict.” The thought of the impending conflict made Fedor shiver, but he didn’t let Kozlovskii see his own fear.</p><p>	“I’m not scared of the fighting. I’m scared of coming home.” He swallowed. “I love her so much, and I don’t know what I’m going to do if I can’t be with her.”</p><p>	The longing in Kozlovskii’s voice nudged something in Fedor’s chest, and he took a slow, deep breath. “I don’t know if she’ll reconsider. After all, the only person who can change her mind is her. But when you come home, you can ask her again, and if God wills it, she might accept.”</p><p>	“Oh!” Kozlovskii’s face brightened, and for a moment Fedor thought he was going to throw his arms around him and kiss him on the cheek out of relief. “That makes so much more sense – thank you!”</p><p>	Fedor laughed. “I admit I’m not sure what was so significant in my words, but I’m glad to help.”</p><p>	“I appreciate it.” Kozlovskii’s brow wrinkled, and he looked up at Fedor with those big, emotional eyes. “Have you ever been in love?”</p><p>	The question hooked its finger around Fedor’s heart and pulled, awakening a deep ache he’d almost forgotten. “Once. A long time ago.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. All I Know is You Said Hello</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Contrary to Trankov’s hopes, the incident at the fire was just the first of Kovtun’s misdemeanors before they reached Austria. In the next two weeks of marching, he managed to break two noses and blacken the eye of the Boikovs’ son.</p><p>	Prince Mikhail Igorevich Boikov – or Misha, as they all called him – was a small, mischievous young man. At three-and-twenty, he looked seventeen. He stood a head shorter than most of the troops, but he walked with a casual swagger and a roguish smirk. He was charming but good-natured, and his serious features could burst into a grin at any moment.</p><p>	Apparently, he had pranked Kovtun by switching their uniforms last night. In his haste to get dressed when the morning bell rang, Kovtun had scrambled into Misha’s much shorter trousers and greeted General Mishin with bare ankles. When the general had laughed, Kovtun had wheeled around and punched Misha in the eye, right in front of Mishin and the rest of the army.</p><p>	Commander Plushenko, who had no tolerance for disorder in his regiment, had hauled Kovtun to the whipping post for twenty lashes. Klimov had brought a cold compress for poor Misha, but the eye was still turning more gruesome by the minute. By the time the troops set up camp that night, it had swelled shut.</p><p>	Dmitri Aliev, Misha’s brother-in-law and closest friend, was taking off his boots when Misha came into the tent, the bluish gray splotch marking one side of his face like the paint of tribal warriors.</p><p>	“How do I look?” said Misha, grinning stupidly. “If anyone asks, tell them Napoleon captured me and beat me in hopes I would betray my country and give away the location of the Russian army.”</p><p>	“Oh, God, Misha.” Aliev winced just looking at the bruise. “You ought to get some medicine for that. Go to the medical tent; they’ve got a doctor there.”</p><p>	“Nah, nah, it’s fine!” Misha waved his hand. “I’m doing a lot better than Kovtun.”</p><p>	Aliev sighed. The whole army had stood by that morning while Kovtun had taken his twenty lashes. At first, he had cursed vilely at Plushenko and spat as the whip came down, but it had soon dissolved into pleading and whimpering. Aliev had turned away before he could see the long, bloody lines on Kovtun’s pale back, but he knew they would be there.</p><p>	“It’s awful,” said Aliev. “For both of you.”</p><p>	“Oh, don’t worry about me,” said Misha. “If you can’t take a black eye, you probably shouldn’t be running into a field full of Frenchmen with muskets.”</p><p>	“Still, that’s nasty.” Aliev frowned and rose from the bed to examine the eye, and Misha flinched. “Let me get the doctor. I mean, you can’t afford to go marching into Austria half blind.”</p><p>	After much cajoling from Aliev and exclamations from the doctor, Misha finally agreed to spend the night in the medical tent, leaving Aliev alone.</p><p>	Well, this war hadn’t even started yet, and already he hated it. He hated trudging through miles of muddy roads on blistered feet. He hated sleeping with a rifle under his arm in case of an ambush. And most of all, he hated being surrounded by the savagery of his own regiment. Misha had been the only agreeable companion on this trip, a little piece of home in this land so far from any world he’d ever known.</p><p>	He reached into the pocket of his trousers and pulled out a pair of wrinkled, dirt-stained handkerchiefs. The ivory, lace-hemmed one was from his mother, and he winced at how yellow and crumpled it had gotten. The other, pale blue with an exquisitely embroidered image of a cat in silver thread, was from his wife.</p><p>	Aliev was only nineteen when he’d offered his hand to Misha’s sister, Princess Yulia Igorevna Boikova. On the day of Yulia’s debutante ball, Misha had enthusiastically persuaded Aliev to dance with her, and their parents had endorsed the match with unabashed relief that their wayward son had finally given up his odd habits and found himself a lady to wed.</p><p>	She had Misha’s straw-colored hair and the same intense hazel eyes that seemed so much older than her round, young face. Talented, clever, and charmingly sarcastic, she should have been the perfect match for him. He cared for her, as he cared for every soul in God’s kingdom. But every time he tried to tell her he loved her, his tongue went cold. He couldn’t tell her the truth.</p><p>	He had been thirteen and Misha fourteen. It was a summer day in Petersburg, and they were sitting under the apple tree outside Aliev’s house. Misha was struggling to learn French and frightened off his tutor by placing a frog in the old man’s cap, so Aliev had offered to give him lessons in the afternoons. He had hand-drawn a series of pencil sketches on parchment to help Misha remember the words.</p><p>	“What is this?” said Aliev, pointing to the drawing of a flower.</p><p>	“La fleur!” Misha’s eyes were sparkling. “I remember!”</p><p>	“Good, good. And where do you find la fleur?”</p><p>	Misha scrunched up his face, then shook his head.</p><p>	Aliev gestured at the blooming jasmine plants around them. “It’s where we’re sitting.”</p><p>	“Le…” Misha’s eyes scanned the flowers, and he slowly turned towards Aliev. “Le jardin?”</p><p>	“Oui,” said Aliev.</p><p>	Misha gasped, and his face broke into a shameless grin of pride. His eyes were sparkling, his cheeks were pink with excitement, and without thinking, Aliev kissed him.</p><p>	It was a terrible time for Aliev’s mother to check on her rosebushes.</p><p>	The two boys had been called into the house to explain themselves, and clever Misha had claimed that they had been acting out Romeo and Juliet for school. “We thought we’d use two fellows, since women weren’t allowed to act in Shakespeare’s time,” he’d said. “I thought it would be more accurate.”</p><p>	Aliev’s parents had nodded along, but they still had their suspicions.</p><p>	Two days passed, and Aliev’s heart nearly exploded with anticipation before he finally got the nerve to ask Misha if he had felt anything when they had kissed.</p><p>	“I felt my best friend trying to kiss me,” said Misha. “I appreciate the sentiment, but I must say, I do prefer ladies.”</p><p>	Aliev had never tried to kiss him again, and neither of them ever mentioned the incident. For the past five years, Misha had been married to a striking, artistic brunette named Princess Stasya, and they had two young sons. And Aliev had tried his best to enjoy married life with Yulia, who was a marvelous woman in her own right. But even the most stunning thoroughbred mare cannot be a stallion.</p><p>	He crumpled the blue handkerchief in his fist and cursed into his teeth. The military was truly the worst place for a man like him. The soldiers bathed in the rivers together, and there were no privacy screens in the tents. Not to mention, sharing a bedroll with Misha while their wives were a thousand miles away was a recipe for disaster, although Aliev knew all too well that his feelings were unrequited. Misha was perfectly content with his beautiful wife and sons, and all he wanted was to destroy the French army as quickly as possible so he could come racing back home to the family he adored. </p><p>	“Excuse me, are you Dmitri Aliev?”</p><p>	He startled and looked up. A young man was standing at the flap of the tent, middling height and lean. He was blond as a Swede, and even in the candlelight, his cheeks were red from the cool air outside. His features were regular and serious, but there was a surprising gentleness in his mouth, a softness to his lips as he spoke.</p><p>	“Yes,” said Aliev, hastily stuffing the handkerchief into his pocket. “Yes, that’s me.”</p><p>	“Oh, good.” The man smiled shyly. “I’m Samarin. They told me I could stay with you because the other fellow got sent to the infirmary. I heard it’s pretty nasty.”</p><p>	“Definitely. He’s my brother-in-law.”</p><p>	“Mercy!” Samarin breathed. “I’ve seen you around camp, but I haven’t ever introduced myself.”</p><p>	“Well, we can get to know each other now.” Aliev stood up and shook his hand. Samarin’s grip was careful but firm, friendly but gentle. “You’re from Moscow, right? I’m from Petersburg.”</p><p>	Samarin bowed his head. “I guessed from the uniform.”</p><p>	“Oh, right.” Aliev laughed and pulled his hand back. His wrist was tingling, and he shook his fingers surreptitiously. “Do you want to sit down?”</p><p>	An expression of relief broke out across Samarin’s face, and he immediately dropped his bedroll on the ground and sank onto the thin cushion. “Phew! I’ve been walking all day!”</p><p>	“Same.” Aliev sat on his own bedroll and sighed. “So what brings you to the army?”</p><p>	Samarin frowned and stared into the shadows of the tent. “To be honest, I don’t really know. I guess I just thought I could make myself useful here. And you?”</p><p>	“I want to serve my duty to my country.” Aliev winced, realizing how pompous that sounded. “I mean, I just want to help people. When I think about all this killing, brothers against brothers…it makes me sick.”</p><p>	“Yeah.” Samarin rubbed his forehead. “It feels like the whole world’s gone to hell.”</p><p>	Aliev bit his lip. “Do you ever feel like you’re responsible for it if you don’t try to fix it? I can’t help feeling like it’s my fault.”</p><p>	Samarin tilted his head, considering. “I think we’re all to blame in this.”</p><p>	“What do you mean by that?”</p><p>	“Well, we’re all part of mankind, and wars start from the flaws of mankind. Or at least that’s what I’ve heard.”</p><p>	“I think you’re right.” Aliev swallowed. “That makes a lot of sense.”</p><p>	“Thanks.” Samarin shrugged. “To be quite honest, I’m just trying to wrap my head around all this, and it’s still not making much sense. I guess that’s why they call it war.”</p><p>	“Yeah.” Aliev raked his hand through his hair and crumpled it in his fingers, then smoothed it out, suddenly aware of how rumpled it must be. “So, are you married?”</p><p>	“No, can’t say I am.” Samarin fiddled with a button on his cuff, not meeting Aliev’s eyes. His features were quiet, pensive. “To be quite honest, finding a wife has never been a priority for me. You must think that odd.”</p><p>	“No, not at all.” Aliev’s lips were trembling, and when he tried to inhale, he felt that there was not enough air in the tent. “It makes perfect sense.”</p><p>	Samarin shrugged. “I mean, it’s nothing personal. I know many truly remarkable women, like my mother, my sister, and my aunts. But a wife…that’s complicated.”</p><p>	Not as complicated as being in love with your wife’s brother, Aliev thought. Despite the October wind, the tent was sweltering, and he scratched his neck, suddenly feeling like his collar was trying to choke him.</p><p>	“Samarin?” came a voice from near the tent flap.</p><p>	“Yes, come in,” said Samarin, sounding slightly annoyed.</p><p>	A tall, broad young man stepped into the tent. “Sorry to bother you. Trankov sent me to tell you that supper is ready.” He turned to Aliev. “Of course, you’re welcome too. How do you do? I’m Alexander Enbert – I don’t believe we’ve met.”</p><p>	“My pleasure,” said Aliev. “I’m Aliev.”</p><p>	“Lovely to meet you.” Enbert gestured towards the tent flap. “The stew is almost done; you’ll want to come before the other troops hear of it, or it’ll be all gone. I’d better go and save you some space near the fire.” He started jogging back towards the campfires before even waiting for either of the men to reply.</p><p>	Samarin glanced at Aliev. “Will you come?”</p><p>	“O–of course.” Aliev took a short, shaky breath. “I’d love to.”</p><p>	“Capital!” Samarin smiled. “It’s been a pleasure to meet you, Aliev. I do hope we’ll be seeing much more of each other in the future.”</p><p>	Aliev opened his mouth to reply, but before he could speak, Samarin grabbed his shoulders and kissed him on both cheeks. It was the most innocent greeting, and by the time Aliev had realized what was happening, Samarin was already standing, his hand on the tent flap, waiting for Aliev to follow.</p><p>	Maybe the army wasn’t such a bad place to be after all.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. The Ocean Separating Us</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>On a Wednesday afternoon in early November, an urgent knock rang out on the door of the Boikov house.Sasha startled, her finger pulling the last stitch of her embroidery too tight. A cold shiver ran down her spine, and she glanced between the two faces in front of her – the worried features of her sister Yulia and the stern expression of her sister-in-law Stasya. The unspoken fear hung between the three of them, thick as summer heat.</p><p>“I’ll answer it,” said Stasya, her lips moving mechanically. She set her cushion aside and rose from the elegant sofa in the drawing room, but her hands were shaking.</p><p>Sasha and Yulia exchanged looks as Stasya hastened off to the entry hall. Since Misha and Aliev had left, the women of the Boikov family had spent most of their time together, stitching pillows and practicing their instruments. No one mentioned the war, but it was all they thought of.<br/>Stasya appeared in the doorway, holding a bundle of envelopes against her chest. Sasha’s heartbeat quickened, and she stood up, letting the pillow fall from her lap to the ground. No. This couldn’t be. They hadn’t even–</p><p>But then she realized Stasya was smiling.</p><p>“They’re safe,” Yulia whispered. “They wrote us.”</p><p>An overwhelming wave of relief rushed through Sasha’s body, and she ran to Stasya’s side. “Come on, let’s see them!”</p><p>“All right, all right, just a minute!” Stasya reclaimed her seat on the sofa and handed one of the letters to Yulia. “This one is for you.”</p><p>Sasha bit her lip, trying to contain her excitement as Stasya sorted through the envelopes and distributed them. Yulia had two – one from her husband Aliev and one from her brother Misha. There were several for Sasha’s parents, and a few came from Stasya’s family.</p><p>“Here, this one is yours, Sasha.” Stasya handed her a water-stained envelope, and Sasha’s eyes raced across the address. Misha had written her name, Aleksandra Boikova, in his big, cheerful handwriting. Sasha tried to open the envelope neatly at first, then ripped the top open and pulled out the note.</p><p> </p><p>Dear Sasha,</p><p>I hope you are staying out of trouble more than I am. So far, I have managed to get hit on the hand with a hammer while nailing a tent stake, chased by a creature that looked like a wolf but turned out to be a hound, and struck in the face by a drunken fool. The army really isn’t the most charming place to be, and I want nothing more than to come home so I can pester you. I miss hearing you laugh. Send my love to Stasya, Mama, Papa, Grandmamma, and Yulia.</p><p>Your annoying big brother,</p><p>Misha</p><p> </p><p>Sasha swallowed and slipped the letter back into the envelope. Her heart throbbed anew for her sweet, good-natured brother. How did this rosy-cheeked boy who used to put spiders in her hair end up on the frontlines of a war where men became beasts?</p><p>“And that’s all,” said Stasya, setting the last letter in the pile for Sasha’s father. “Everyone is safe.”</p><p>Sasha glanced at the pile, her heartbeat flickering. For a moment, she felt almost disappointed that there was not another letter, and she frowned, trying to shake the feeling.</p><p>“Should I tell him?” Yulia’s voice broke the silence. “He doesn’t know yet.”</p><p>Stasya blinked, and her eyes drifted to Yulia’s rapidly growing stomach. Three days after the soldiers had left, Yulia had jumped from her seat and vomited into a vase.</p><p>Moskvina, who had seen this dozens of times before, had smiled at her and told her she was pregnant with her first child.</p><p>“Of course you should,” said Stasya. “I’m sure it will be a little piece of happy news for him, which is exactly what he needs right now.”</p><p>Yulia pressed her hand against her stomach and winced. “I don’t know, to be honest.”</p><p>“It will cheer him up to know you’re well,” Sasha chimed in. “Nothing will motivate him to come home more than knowing he has a child waiting for him.”</p><p>“Trust me,” said Stasya. “When Misha found out for the first time, he was overjoyed.” Stasya had given birth to a healthy son just a few months ago, her second child.</p><p>“I guess so.” Yulia rubbed her forehead. “It just feels wrong somehow.”</p><p>A strange feeling settled over Sasha, and she found her hand cupping her own belly. How would it feel to have children of her own? She had never given it much thought, but the idea prickled the corners of her head while she tried to stitch the edge of the cushion. The needle slipped, and a drop of blood beaded up from her finger.<br/>Her parents hadn’t asked her to her face yet, but she knew they were constantly wondering if any of the young men at the debutante ball had caught her eye. Of course they had. There had been at least a dozen handsome, pleasant fellows who made excellent dance partners. But the whole night had felt like an odd dream, one where she was surrounded by beautiful people yet everyone she knew was gone.</p><p>She pulled the next embroidery stitch a little tighter.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Back in Moscow, the Bukins received word from their son Vanya.</p><p>The old prince sat in a leather armchair, his fingertips pressed to his forehead as his wife stood in the center of the parlor and read the letter in the most dramatic fashion. Across from him, the twins perched on the edge of an ornate chaise.</p><p>In appearance, Vika and Sasha Stepanova were nearly identical. They were both tall and slender, with sleek golden hair and heart-shaped faces that earned them the reputation of being the prettiest women in Moscow. But while Sasha’s features rested in a constant unimpressed, unaffected expression, Vika’s face was always lit up with a girlish innocence and wonder towards the world around her. Even as she listened to her aunt’s Shakespearean retelling of Vanya’s harrowing journey, her eyes sparkled with hope and light. To her, receiving news from Vanya meant that he was not dead.</p><p>Sasha, meanwhile, bit hard on her lip as Princess Bukina’s voice climbed in animation. Every word was a lie. Vanya had written his letter in a formal, strained language intended to disguise his true fear about the war ahead. He had not mentioned any suffering, but Sasha was not a fool. She knew he was not traveling to Austria in a horse-drawn carriage, sipping champagne as he arrived in the majestic Alps. He was trying to be brave, but she knew him too well.</p><p>That sweet, beautiful idiot.</p><p>He’d die. He’d die somewhere out in the wilderness, cold and alone and afraid, a million miles from home. And, because she loved him more than she could ever love another living soul, she would never forgive him.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>A month passed before Liza told Betina about her grandfather’s idea.</p><p><br/>Betina did not cry, did not scream, did not slap Liza across the face and call her a traitor. She just stared at Liza with those beautiful eyes and whispered, “I understand.”</p><p>And that was the most heartbreaking thing she could have said. Because Liza did not understand. She would never understand.</p><p>Betina snuggled in closer and lay her head on Liza’s stomach. They were lying in Liza’s bed as usual, a single candle glowing on the nightstand. It was after midnight, but it was impossible to sleep while such news hung over their heads.</p><p>“When will you be getting married?” said Betina, her voice flat.</p><p>“I don’t know.” Liza swallowed and laced her fingers through Betina’s dark curls. “I don’t know a damn thing anymore.”</p><p>“Liza.” Betina sighed. “You knew this was never going to work.”</p><p>Liza frowned. She had been well aware of the rules of society that first time she’d pressed Betina against the wall of the empty corridor in the east wing and tasted the cinnamon on her lips. She’d known what this meant for them – a life of sneaking around the shadows, stealing moments when no one was looking. She’d even understood that if they got caught, they’d get shipped off to convents before they could even say goodbye. She’d pictured her grandfather’s disapproving scowl as he opened up her bedroom door and found her entangled with Betina, as she had feared a hundred times.</p><p>But she had never imagined that Grandpapa would break her heart because he valued nothing more than her own happiness.</p><p>“Betina.” Liza shuddered against the tension in her chest. She wanted to rip this house to shreds, rampage across Russia, demand an explanation from God himself – not for ruining her own life, but for Betina’s. “I’m so sorry.”</p><p>“It’s all right.” Betina turned her face up to Liza and cupped her cheek in her hand. “You’re going to make a beautiful bride.”</p><p>The words crunched on Liza’s heart like boots in hardened snow.</p><p>“You and I are going to search the empire until we find the best man – the whole empire. We won’t stop searching until we find the only man who will deserve you. Someone kind. Someone who’ll make you laugh. Someone who treats you like his Empress.” Betina’s voice faltered and silvery tears lined her eyes, but she smiled. “And then we’ll bring him back here…and then you’ll get married.”</p><p>Liza swallowed hard. “And what will happen to you?”</p><p>Betina closed her eyes. “I’ll find a place. I’m sure someone will need a maid or a governess in Petersburg.” Tears leaked out from beneath her lashes, and she sobbed as she raised her gaze to Liza. “Even if the new family I serve doesn’t have a beautiful daughter.”</p><p>“Stop.” Liza pulled Betina’s head against her stomach. She couldn’t watch her lover cry without wanting to kill whatever force of nature had caused it. “Don’t say that.”</p><p>So they just lay silent, two girls trapped in invisible chains, until the single candle on the nightstand sputtered out.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Now We've Got Bad Blood</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Napoleon had reached Vienna.</p><p>The French army had surrounded the bulk of the Austrian troops several weeks ago before the Russians had even reached the Alps. Most of the Austrians had surrendered rather than risking a fight without their reinforcements from the east, and Napoleon had strolled into Vienna without incident.</p><p>The news had struck less than an hour ago, but the entire camp of Russian soldiers was already in a frenzy. General Mishin had called an emergency meeting in his war tent in hopes that his leading commanders had enough common sense between them to piece together some sort of logical plan.</p><p>Well, perhaps that had been asking too much.</p><p>“In all my years of service to Mother Russia, I have never heard a plan half as idiotic as yours!” cried Prince Yagudin. “Inconceivable!”</p><p>There was no table or chairs inside the tent save the three-legged stool Mishin was sitting on, so Yagudin was leaning against the wall, arms crossed and cold eyes locked on Commander Plushenko pacing on the other side of the tent.</p><p>Upon hearing the news of the French occupation, Yagudin had proposed that retreating to Prague for the winter was the best solution. If the French army marched east, the Russians would be ready as soon as the heavy snows started to clear.</p><p>Plushenko had denounced the plan with incredulous fury, declaring that the French must be stopped as swiftly as possible, even if it meant fighting through the winter. If they had taken Austria so easily, Russia would be next.</p><p>And General Mishin had just sat on his stool for the past twenty minutes, shaking his head at the two idiots who were to inherit command of the army whenever he died.</p><p>“Well, it’s no dumber than to stand in line and wait for the French to use us for target practice.” Plushenko stalked across the tent with energetic, angry steps. “When General Mishin told us to “lead the army”, I’m pretty sure he meant for us to lead the troops to victory – not to the guillotine!”</p><p>“That is precisely why your plan is so foolhardy!” Yagudin threw out his hands and glanced at Mishin, looking for support. “If your goal is really to keep the Russian troops alive, maybe you shouldn’t lead them straight into the mouth of the lion!”</p><p>“So what’s your plan? We leave the lion alone so it can gain enough strength to eat us all alive?”</p><p>Yagudin gritted his teeth. “The French are so busy cutting up the Austrians that they won’t even notice if we turn around and ride back to Prague. But if we march in there with half the men in Russia, the French will attack.”</p><p>“We’re in a deal with Austria,” said Plushenko. “Do you really want a bunch of angry Austrians beating down our doors because we left them high and dry in the mountains?”</p><p>Yagudin narrowed his eyes. “This is not our war. We did the Austrians a big favor by offering to help in the first place. It’s not my fault that they backed down so easily.”</p><p>“How did you get your job again, Yagudin?” Plushenko glared down his prominent nose. “I’ve heard lately they’ve been taking any brainless chump as long as he’s got ties with the old Grand Duchess Tarasova.”</p><p>The bitter November wind outside was dwarfed by the iciness in Yagudin’s eyes. “And pray tell, what is your claim to glory? Running away from your master’s farm to slash up some Turks?”</p><p>Unlike Yagudin, who was born into a prominent family, Plushenko’s unprecedented rise to the top of the Russian army came in the recent wars with the Turks. He had joined the army at fifteen, collected a handful of medals in the Bosporus, and came home from the last war as the highest-ranked officer in the army save Mishin and Yagudin.</p><p>Plushenko spat on the floor. “I earned my way up. Unlike some spoiled brats.”</p><p>Yagudin crossed his arms again and assumed a bored expression. “I don’t give a damn where you hail from or how you acquired your laurels. Right now, you have been trusted to make major decisions regarding life and death, and your foolishness will cost thousands of lives!”</p><p>Plushenko returned his hard stare. “And yours won’t?”</p><p>Yagudin ran his hand through his hair. “You enjoy this, don’t you? You’ll gloat when you see Russia fall. I’ll bet you think it’s some kind of revenge for your low birth – revenge on the Almighty himself.”</p><p>“And what if it is?”</p><p>“I don’t know what your motive is, and I have better things to do than care. But let me tell you, Plushenko.” Yagudin stepped forward with frightening calmness, closing the distance between him and Plushenko so they stood face to face in the center of the tent. “I’d sooner tell my men to shoot their own heads off than to follow orders from you.”</p><p>Plushenko hissed and pulled back to swing a punch.</p><p>“That’s enough!” General Mishin sprang from his stool and shoved the two men apart. Yagudin and Plushenko stumbled back, surprised at the old man’s strength. To be honest, Mishin was a bit surprised at himself. “What are you, a pair of savages? For the past half hour, you’ve done nothing but rip at each other’s throats while the French advance on us! I appointed you for your ability to keep Russian troops alive, not to stand around and hold a contest for ‘most pathetic commanders in history’! I will not tolerate two of my top commanders fighting each other like drunken hedgehogs!”</p><p>Plushenko and Yagudin exchanged glances.</p><p>“I may be an old man,” said Mishin, “but I’ve been fighting in wars before either of you were even out of your mothers. At fourteen, I was tied to a stake and whipped by the Prussians when we were taken hostage on a mission. I marched across Europe and back until I fainted from exhaustion to help my allies in the Seven Years’ War. I survived when the Turks put a venomous snake in my mouth to make me reveal the location of my regiment – and they didn’t learn a single thing.” He scowled. “The real war is out there, not in here. Understand?”</p><p>The two commanders shifted awkwardly, but both mumbled a halfhearted “Yes, sir”.</p><p>Mishin frowned. He had been hoping for more enthusiasm than that. “Do you have pride in your country? Do you want to serve Mother Russia with honor? Do you believe the people of our great nation deserve the right to prosper?”</p><p>Both men nodded.</p><p>General Mishin sighed, then grabbed them both by the collars of their jackets until their medals jingled. He was a good deal shorter than either of them, but his grip was still firm and intimidating. “Then shut up!”</p><p>He couldn’t help getting a smug satisfaction as Plushenko and Yagudin’s eyes went wide with panic. These dumb brutes.</p><p>Mishin let go of their collars, and the younger men stumbled back. “This war is far from over. Tell your regiments to march north of the Danube. We will join the remaining Austrians and confront the French as soon as possible. The sooner we strike, the sooner we can come home to Russia safe and sound.”</p><p>Plushenko smirked. Yagudin’s teeth were clenched.</p><p>“You are both dismissed.” Mishin picked up his rifle from the floor and ran his hand lazily over the long barrel. “And if either of you cause any discord again, I will have you both stripped of your honors and exiled to Siberia for treason.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0010"><h2>10. Faster than You Could Say Sabotage</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>This was not how things were supposed to go.</p><p>            Maxim Trankov groaned as the nurse pulled away the bandages and smeared salve down his side. His eyes stung with tears at the pain, and he bit down hard on his lip to stop himself from screaming. He felt as if he had two hearts – one beating faintly in his chest where it should be and one battering above his hip.</p><p>            He’d never imagined a tiny lead ball would do so much damage. If it had gone a few inches higher, the doctor had said somewhere in the hazy delirium shortly after it had happened, he would’ve been dead.</p><p>            Everything had started off on the right foot. The Austro-Russian forces had held the majority as they marched onto that battlefield in the region called Austerlitz. When the first gunfire had rumbled at the front, Trankov had rushed across the field with the conviction that they weren’t just going to win, but decimate the French army in the process.</p><p>            It ended up being the other way around.</p><p>            Trankov didn’t even understand how the tide had shifted, only that Russian troops were falling and the French were still standing. He couldn’t remember the moment when the French had gained the upper hand; the whole battle had been one continuous blur of shouting, shooting, and running, like a chaotic fever dream.</p><p>            He had imagined this day for weeks, ever since he’d joined the regiment marching from Moscow. He’d pictured himself riding into battle on a majestic stallion, like Yagudin’s prize mount. He’d pictured himself charging across the field, shooting down French soldiers halfway across the wide plain at a full gallop. He’d pictured cutting through the enemy line and taking down Napoleon himself with one glorious shot that echoed like a victory song.</p><p>            Instead, he’d taken a bullet in his left side and blacked out before he’d hit the ground. When he’d awakened three days later in this very bed, the nurse had told him that the French had won.</p><p>            That had been one week ago. The days had started running together as he lay staring at the flimsy ceiling of the infirmary for hours on end, trying to think about everything except the throbbing in his side.</p><p>            “Hold still,” said the nurse, frowning. She was a stout woman with a grim mouth and a snout-like nose that seemed to sniff him disapprovingly. “Do you want this to get infected?”</p><p>            “No,” Trankov said through gritted teeth. He’d heard the doctor and nurses whispering that some of the men were dying from infected wounds, not artery damage or blood loss from the bullet itself.</p><p>            One of them had been Alexander Smirnov, a colleague he’d met when he’d first moved to Moscow. He’d taken three shots before he went down – one to the shoulder and two in the leg – and passed last night from an infection that had spread from his leg to the rest of his body. Trankov had heard the other soldiers talking about it, but he hadn’t let himself think about it yet. Right now, he had just enough energy to either grieve for his comrade or stay alive, and he’d chosen the latter. Perhaps that made him selfish, but he didn’t have the strength to contemplate that.</p><p>            He closed his eyes and tried to picture the calmest thing he could think of – his wife Tanya and their four beautiful children. As the nurse rubbed the bitingly harsh disinfectant into the stitches around his side, he mouthed those children’s names to stop himself from shrieking. Angelika, because she was born with the sweet, innocent face of a cherub. Leonid, after Trankov’s late father. Pyotr, as in the first modern emperor of Russia. Stanislav, for Tanya’s second cousin who had died a few days before the son’s birth.</p><p>            “You’re a lucky man, Trankov,” said every colleague and acquaintance who had the pleasure of meeting his family. “The Tsar might be blessed with absolute power, but you are blessed with absolute happiness.”</p><p>            The moment he’d first glimpsed Tanya as a debutante at a society ball in Moscow, he’d instantly understood that he was gazing upon his wife. From that night on, no other woman could capture his heart, because he had already pledged all the love in his soul to her. By some miracle, this fair, captivating beauty had looked at him with fascination, and they had quickly fallen into a magical courtship. It had been the romance of the century – the grandson of General Mishin and the granddaughter of Tatiana Anatolievna Tarasova.</p><p>            Naturally, the Grand Duchess Tarasova had some doubts when Trankov had asked for the hand of her favorite granddaughter. Although he lived in Moscow, he was a Petersburg man by birth – too modern, too liberal, too easily corrupted by the Western ways. But an angel must have been watching over them, because Tanya’s grandmother eventually granted them permission to wed.</p><p>            Now, nearly eight years later, they were still perfectly happy. Tanya was as beautiful and good-natured as she’d been on the night they’d met, and all their quarrels could be resolved as soon as Trankov admitted that everything was his own fault. Their children were as kind and well-mannered as their mother – although, Trankov admitted to himself with a smile, Angelika had inherited his stubbornness and quick temper.</p><p>            He wondered what they were doing right now, but he couldn’t quite form a picture. He couldn’t imagine how much the children had grown since he’d left, or whether they were squabbling, or if they spoke of him.</p><p>            They were staying with Tanya’s parents and her younger sister Evgenia, who was still unmarried at nearly three-and-twenty. She was as pretty and gentle as her sister, but she had rejected every suitor who had tried to court her. The Grand Duchess Tarasova was probably pacing the floor right now, ranting about how such a charming young woman would die an old maid. He could picture <em>that</em> as clearly as he could feel the prickle in his side.</p><p>            In his daydream, he didn’t realize that the nurse had left. The wound was still pulsing furiously through the fresh wads of linen she’d stuck to it, and he groaned. He supposed it felt a bit better than it had felt a week ago, but reducing from “the fires of hell” to “excruciating” wasn’t much of an improvement.</p><p>            If he had to stare at that blasted ceiling for one more minute, his head would explode. Biting his lip, he pressed his hand against the bandages and raised himself a few inches. The effort made his eyes sting, but he forced himself to keep going. Colors rushed around him, and he buried his head in his hands, taking several deep breaths and begging the world to stop swirling in his vision.</p><p>            At least he was sitting up now. Slowly, he pulled his hands away and looked around at the rows of beds around him. Most of the men were sleeping or lying half-comatose on their backs, like he had been. The fellow next to him had so many bandages around his head that Trankov couldn’t see his face.</p><p>            At the far end of the room, the soldiers with minor injuries were sprawled on the floor, playing cards and talking. He recognized Kozlovskii, the young aristocrat from Petersburg who’d punched Kovtun. Throughout the march to Austria, Kozlovskii had been like an eager golden retriever, running around and chattering with nerves. But his face was subdued and his broad shoulders hunched in defeat as he played a halfhearted game of bridge with his comrades.</p><p>            In the corner, a young Petersburg hussar had dozed off with his head on the chest of a blond fellow from Moscow. He’d seen them sneaking around a lot in the days leading up to the battle, and he’d heard some rumors that two fellows had gone skinny-dipping after midnight while their commanders were busy getting in a fight. Trankov had never been one for the gents, but he wasn’t stupid; he even knew a few princes who kept uncommonly handsome stewards and hunting companions for personal reasons. Poor chaps. They’d probably get flogged if Plushenko or Yagudin found out.</p><p>            Still, they looked peaceful and happy, and that was more than Trankov could say for himself right now.</p><p>            “You’re awake.”</p><p>            Trankov turned, wincing as the movement pulled on his stitches. Klimov was standing beside his cot, holding a slim flask. His beard was a bit thicker than usual and a few red nicks marked his cheek, but he was standing upright, fully dressed with no visible bandages.</p><p>            Since that night at the bonfire when they’d gotten acquainted, Klimov had been following Trankov around like a faithful steward. They had marched alongside each other and shared a tent for most of the trip through the Alps. Trankov didn’t mind this, for Klimov was an agreeable companion – calm, intelligent, quiet yet firm in his opinions. In this war where everything was bitter and cruel, it was a relief to have a pleasant chum.</p><p>            “I thought you could use a drink,” said Klimov, holding out the flask. His hand was shaking a bit, and Trankov blinked. Maybe he was hurt after all.</p><p>            “Well, it certainly looks better than the slop the nurse keeps giving me.” Trankov took the flask and popped the cap off, trying not to disturb the stitches as he raised it to his lips and took a sip. It was cheap, watered-down vodka, but it was the first taste of human life he’d had since he’d hit the ground on that battlefield.</p><p>            Klimov bit his lip and lowered his eyes. “There’s…there’s something I need to tell you.”</p><p>            Trankov tipped back his head and let the liquor burn in his mouth and rush down his throat. Really, they should’ve just gotten him drunk for the past week until his organs stopped trying to climb out of his body.</p><p>            “The war…” Klimov closed his eyes. “The war is over.”</p><p>            Vodka dribbled down Trankov’s lip as he pulled the flask away. “What?”</p><p>            “Austria is signing an armistice with France. The French have agreed to let us walk free as long as we don’t fight them…General Mishin says it’s the best way to get out alive. Yagudin and Plushenko haven’t stopped arguing about it since the minute the news came.”</p><p>            Trankov blinked. “No. No, this can’t – that doesn’t make sense. We – we can’t just let them win like that.”</p><p>            Klimov sighed. “We don’t have a choice. We can’t afford to lose any more men.” He squeezed his eyes shut. “We couldn’t afford to lose the ones we already lost, for that matter.”</p><p>            “But – but–” Trankov couldn’t find words to describe the confusion in his head. The Austro-Russian alliance was forged from steel; they should be able to crush the French with one single blow. What had happened on that battlefield had been bad luck, a single setback, a fluke.</p><p>            How could the war be over when it had just started? They couldn’t have possibly marched across Europe for months just to fight one battle. This couldn’t be the end. They couldn’t just give up now.</p><p>            “Trankov.” Klimov looked straight at him. For the first time, Trankov noticed the shadows haunting his dark eyes, as if ghosts were flitting in and out of his head. “Trust me, it’s for the best.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0011"><h2>11. The Lights, The Party, The Ball Gowns</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Winter fell upon Petersburg in a suffocating white burden. The news of the defeat at Austerlitz weighed each snowflake, creating a blindingly thick curtain of misery over the city. Yet no matter how many men lay dead on the fields, the well-to-do were still obligated to host and attend the countless soirees of the season. In the face of such senseless brutality, an elegant gala offered a glimmer of normalcy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The responsibility of tonight’s ball rested on the carefree shoulders of Countess Adelina Sotnikova. In peacetimes, her parties had always been the most extravagant and amusing events in Petersburg, popular with both young and old alike. But tonight, the mood in her white stone mansion was somber and reserved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, this was hardly the fault of the hostess. Countess Sotnikova was not yet five-and-twenty, but she was already one of the wealthiest and most outrageous women in the fashionable world. She had once been merely the plain, awkward daughter of a royal guard, but adolescence had greatly improved her features, and she had used her charm to ensnare the hand of an elderly count. Upon his passing, she had become the mistress of his four vast estates, which she frequently used to entertain her handsome consorts.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Countess Sotnikova was also blessed — or perhaps cursed, depending upon one’s point of view — with the ability to move freely in every circle of society. Her family had pledged unwavering loyalty to the Tsar, and she could deliver rousing speeches on the unparalleled beauty of Mother Russia to crowds of adoring nationalists. At the same time, she considered herself a true Renaissance woman. She adorned herself in French fashions, filled her mansion with German paintings, and swooned in rapture over the art of Italian sculpture.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The countess’s duality also extended to her religious beliefs. To the proper world, she was a devout Orthodox Christian, eternally bound in servitude to her lord and savior. But one of her lady’s maids had released the rumor that the countess often called upon peasant mystics and strange “holy men” to treat her various ailments. She was deeply superstitious, and one of the kitchen boys had even suggested that she had used a voodoo doll to end her husband’s life and secure his ample fortune.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Despite all the bizarre conspiracies that surrounded the young widow, Countess Sotnikova was a favorite amongst the high-born young women of Petersburg for her wit and glamour, and an even greater favorite amongst the gentlemen for her beauty and boldness.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She set down her wine glass and muttered a coquettish excuse to the dandy sharing her sofa as she caught sight of the two figures that had just entered the ballroom: Liza and Sonya Tuktamysheva.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Liza! Liza, my dear! How wonderful it is to see you!” Countess Sotnikova picked up the long, cumbersome skirts of her ruby-red gown as she rushed across the room to greet them. She kissed Liza on both cheeks, leaving smudges of startlingly bright lipstick. “And little Sonya—how you’ve grown up! Oh, you look simply marvelous. How are you, my darlings?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We are all quite well, thank you,” said Sonya. The bronze light of the chandelier lent a lustrous sheen to her golden-brown hair and highlighted the traces of amber in her bright eyes. Her dress was a splendid shade of lavender, and she had pinned so many violets along the neckline that her bodice looked like a flower pot.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In contrast, Liza’s dark hair, pale skin, and hooded eyes gave her the appearance of a vampire empress. Her moss green gown was cut wide across her shoulders, showcasing her shapely curves. She had tried to wear something more modest, but Sonya had insisted this dress was too breathtaking to leave behind. Now, as the young men in the room cast her approving looks, Liza was starting to regret listening to her sister’s advice.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Countess Sotnikova tucked a perky ringlet behind her ear and laughed awkwardly. The entire mood of the party felt wrong. Everyone in the ballroom was dressed in their best clothes and sipping the finest champagne, but they moved stiffly, as if they were trying to remember their lines in a play. “Well, if you need anything, you just blink and I’ll be there.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As the countess swaggered back to her sofa of lovers, Liza bit her lip. </span>
  <em>
    <span>How about a way out of this party?</span>
  </em>
  <span> Despite the brutal chill outside, the room felt sweltering.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonya tugged on Liza’s arm, startling her back to attention. “The dancing is about to begin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liza swallowed. She had always enjoyed the society parties of Petersburg for the conversation, the fashions, and most importantly, the champagne. But the formal dances filled her throat with an awkward giggle that felt too unsteady to be charming. Men made for excellent dancing partners, but there was a strange notion amongst the upper classes that dancing and courtship were intertwined.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You can go ahead,” she said. “I’ll just get a champagne first.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonya wasted no time fluttering across the ballroom, carving a path past the handsomest men in the room. By the time the orchestra began the prelude of the first waltz, she was strolling arm in arm with a curly-haired boy in a splendid blue cravat.</span>
</p><p><span>Liza lingered by the refreshments table, strategically positioning herself behind a potted fern near the window. </span> <span>On any other night, she might have found amusement in the sophisticated scene. But for her, this ball was far from a playful game.</span></p><p>
  <span>She shivered to remember Betina’s cool hands on her back as they fastened the stiff silver laces of her gown. They both knew what this night meant. The winter balls were Liza’s best chance of securing a husband before Grandpapa returned from the war.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The culinary end of the gala was dominated by the matriarchs of Petersburg—Moskvina, Zoueva, Protopopova, and Velikova. They were in deep, stern conversation about reports from the war, for that was the only thing people talked about these days. Liza knocked back a goblet of champagne, hoping the liquor would blur the gravity of their words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I for one don’t see why General Mishin allowed them to turn back and march home in the dead of winter,” said Princess Velikova. “It’s nothing but foolhardy to send our boys marching home in a blizzard.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then what do you suggest?” Princess Zoueva countered. “It would be irresponsible to leave the soldiers at the front without food or shelter, especially during the winter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Patience, girls,” Grand Duchess Moskvina said gently. “There’s no use in arguing over the things we cannot control. I can assure you General Mishin would never willingly send his men into a compromising position. If there is tragedy, then it is an act of God, not my brother’s incompetence.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liza managed to stay out of the spotlight for three more dances before Sonya hunted her down, cheeks pink from the exertion of dancing and eyes sparkling with enthusiasm.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Liza, why aren’t you dancing?” Sonya latched her arm through Liza’s and started to tug her onto the dance floor. “Look, you’ve got an admirer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liza’s face burned with panic. “Who?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Him.” Sonya turned Liza around and jerked her head towards a fair-skinned young man in a gray tailcoat. “His name is Andrei Lazukin, he’s a distant relative of the Boikovs, and he has ten million rubles a year. Go over and talk to him.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I won’t!” Liza shook off her sister. “I can’t.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then why are you here, Liza? To torture all the suitors in Petersburg by standing here looking like a goddess and turning down everything that wears a tailcoat? Why don’t you just admit that you despise men?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liza blushed. She had never made an effort to conceal her relationship with Betina from Sonya, but they had never discussed the implications of the arrangement.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I don’t despise men,” she said, willing her voice not to crack. “I simply don’t have room in my heart for one.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonya let out an exasperated sigh. “I’m sorry. I know you’ve never been like me when it comes to boys.” She scanned the ballroom, a pucker forming between her pretty brows. “Just…just talk to him, okay? Even if it’s just for five minutes. I hate to see you standing around here like a statue.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sonya kissed her sister’s cheek before hastening off to join her next dance partner. Liza frowned and risked a glance at the suitor Sonya had pointed out. He was tall and lean, with smooth brown hair that formed a little cap around his head. She supposed he wasn’t bad-looking, and unlike some of the men she’d met from her grandfather’s regiment, his manners seemed far from boorish. Taking a deep breath, she crossed the room to the window where he was standing.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liza was far from inexperienced in the art of seduction, and she could usually think of a dozen saucy phrases without effort. But those secret, deliciously dirty words had always been for Betina — not some pale, scared fellow wringing his hands in the corner of a crowded ballroom. Cursing herself for giving in to Sonya’s pestering so easily, she joined Lazukin at the window, assumed a flattering pose, and slicked her voice into a flirtatious purr.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mercy, it’s so crowded by the refreshments table, I can’t hear myself think. Do you mind if I join you here?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He blinked twice, his cheeks coloring. “Not—not at all. In fact, I daresay the old madames can be bloody loud.” His throat bobbed above his cravat. “Of course, I’m sure they have something of interest to say, regardless of their volume.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Exactly.” She lowered her eyes, then raised her gaze slowly, as if she was taking in every contour of his body. She supposed he was a decent-looking fellow, but the motion felt clumsy, and her awkwardness raised a rare ripple of unease down her spine. “I don’t think we’ve met. I’m Countess Elizaveta Tuktamysheva.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He bowed his head. “It is an honor to meet you, Countess. Lord Andrei Lazukin at your service, ma’am.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She nodded in acknowledgment. “Pleased to meet you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Would you…” He glanced around the room, then held out a white, stiff hand. “Would you care to dance with me, Countess Tuktamysheva?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Liza’s heartbeat pecked at the insides of her ears. This was what she had come here to do, right? This was what Grandpapa had told her to do.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She extended her gloved hand and curled her fingers around his. “It would be my pleasure, Lord Lazukin.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0012"><h2>12. Nice to Meet You, Where've You Been?</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Two hours after the party had begun, Sasha Boikova’s back was aching from the rigid boning of her pale blue gown. All of the unmarried ladies were swathed in pastel muslin, fastened to their figures with laces that left crisscrossed markings down their backs the next morning. The fitted bodices did not allow any room for slouching, so the girls paraded around the room with exemplary posture, maintaining pleasant smiles that concealed their true discomfort.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In fact, this was the collective mood in the ballroom on the chilly winter evening at Countess Sotnikova’s ball. Everyone was putting up a facade of merriment, but not a soul in Russia was unaware of the loss at Austerlitz and what it meant for their troops. The gala felt stiff and unnatural, like a play performed by marionettes instead of living actors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As soon as the quadrille finished, Sasha scurried off the dance floor to the shelter of the ballroom’s outer wall. The countess’s mansion was lined with splendid murals of Venetian gondolas, French gardens, and Spanish girls dancing with tambourines. The bright colors offered a strange contrast to the dark, stoic clothing of the elders.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Countess Sotnikova mounted the orchestra’s platform and held her glass aloft. Her flawless red gown seemed particularly out of place in the uneasy ballroom, but she smiled brightly. “I would like to raise a toast to the brave defenders of our motherland, whether they be far or near. God bless His Majesty the Tsar, God bless Mother Russia, and God bless the generals and commanders who will courageously lead our men to glory.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A low murmur of disapproval rumbled through the crowd. Despite the countess’s optimistic toast, it was common knowledge that the war was far from a victory.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I do hope you are enjoying the party,” said Countess Sotnikova. “Without further ado, let us dance. Let us revel in the beauty of life, movement, and most importantly, each other.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The orchestra struck up a polka, and the couples returned to the dance floor. Usually, the polkas were the liveliest dances of the evening, but tonight, everyone seemed to stomp about rigidly, their faces blank. Sasha lingered beside the mural, frowning as her dress dug into her back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had always been told that coming out was the highlight of a young lady’s life, the year of glamour and festivity that bridged youth and womanhood. Since her debut, she had danced with nearly every eligible man in Petersburg, and to be fair, the parties </span>
  <em>
    <span>were </span>
  </em>
  <span>fun. But no matter how much she enjoyed the swirling and stepping of the jolly dances, she couldn’t shake the feeling that something was missing. Perhaps it was merely the stress of the war, but she had yet to find a suitor who made her heart stop beating.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Across the room, she spied Dasha and Denis Khodykin kicking along to the quick beat. Dasha’s face was intense with focus as she hopped about, but Denis looked breathless and confused as he tried to keep up with her nimble feet. From the day they had married, everyone had known it was a match of circumstance rather than love. They had never endeavored to hide the awkward formality between them; they had merely accepted their reality and tried to adapt as well as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Perhaps that was enough for Dasha. But Sasha had never been one to settle for less than she deserved.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Princess Boikova, a word.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha startled and lifted her eyes to find a man in a fitted black tailcoat standing before her. His dark hair was trimmed close to his head on the sides, and although his features were handsome and distinguished, his clean-shaven skin was still bright with youth. At over six feet, he stood well above her, nearly as tall as Dima.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had seen him a few times before, but he had not been a regular at the society parties since she’d come out. Although she knew he was from one of the wealthier Petersburg families, she couldn’t remember his name. She offered him a cautious smile. “Yes, go on.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He took her hand and planted a firm kiss between her knuckles. “I don’t believe we’ve been properly introduced. I’m Aleksandr Galliamov, eldest son of Count Roman Galliamov.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha curtsied, a quick bend at the knees. The Boikov family had sometimes invited the Galliamovs to their soirees, but she had never spoken to them. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Aleksandra Boikova, daughter of the Prince and Princess Boikov.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It is a pleasure to meet you, Princess.” He extended his hand. “Allow me to lead you in the next waltz?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She blinked at the large, white-gloved hand in front of her. “I’m—I’m very flattered, Count Galliamov, but I—”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She broke off. Galliamov’s lips had softened into understanding, waiting for her rejection. But no excuse came to mind.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It would be my honor,” she said, placing her hand in his.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The orchestra transitioned from the upbeat polka to an elegant waltz. Galliamov strode onto the dance floor with smooth, measured steps, then placed his free hand on her shoulder. Sasha straightened and nestled her glove above his elbow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I hope your family is in good health,” said Galliamov. His voice was polished and cool like a swift stream, gliding easily over the music. “I understand your brother is in the military.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, he is. It’s his first time being so far from home.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I wish him all the best. I heard he is to receive a medal for his valor at Austerlitz.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You heard correctly.” Sasha couldn’t help smiling at the opportunity to praise her brother. “He led seventeen Russian soldiers out of danger—they would’ve all perished by a French cannon if not for him.” It had been three weeks since she’d received Misha’s second letter, relaying the details of the battle.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Galliamov’s eyes widened. “That is no easy feat. When he comes home, I would like to personally thank him for his service. It takes a brave man to place his comrades’ lives above his own.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s the kind of man Misha has always been. Even as a child, he was always filled with such a special light and goodness. And humor.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“It seems to me that benevolence runs strong in the Boikov family.” He smiled. “I must admit, this is not the first time I have attempted to secure a dance with you, Princess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She felt warmth rising in her cheeks. “Is that so?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tilted his head shyly. “To be quite honest, I don’t usually enjoy dancing. The social scene of Petersburg…it’s all a bit chaotic to me. In fact, I have only chosen to live here because of the excellent university.” They made a wide turn, and Sasha’s skirts swept out grandly. “But my brother Anatoly told me of the clever and beautiful young debutante from the Boikov family, and I had no choice but to come.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She lowered her eyes, then smiled up at him. “And are you disappointed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No. Not at all. In fact, you are twice as gracious and well-spoken as I imagined you would be.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>They turned a corner. Galliamov’s movements were clean and sharp, and even Sasha, who considered herself to be a good dancer, found herself challenged by his grace and speed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You mentioned that you attend university,” she said. “What do you study?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am working to become a lawyer. Although I am also enrolled in several classes on chemistry, calculus, and political science.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha blinked. He couldn’t have been more than three years older than her. “That’s quite impressive. I’ve heard most counts spend their time in the brothels, not the libraries.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His face tightened, and he blushed. For a moment, she regretted speaking so freely. She’d only been out for six months, but she’d already learned that men grew uncomfortable when girls said anything even the slightest bit improper. Males were accustomed to being more worldly, and therefore better suited to provoke a nervous laugh from the opposite sex. But to Galliamov’s credit, he kept his voice steady.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Perhaps so. But for me, there is no greater beauty than knowledge. There is so much in this world that we believe we will never understand. We are taught to limit ourselves merely because we have been told that something is too complex to comprehend. Yet all problems, no matter how complicated they may be, have solutions.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The waltz had eased into a slow, gliding pattern, but Sasha’s heart was still beating fiercely against the stiff bodice of her gown. “I believe the same. The world is like one massive riddle, waiting for us to solve it. That’s why I love books so much—they show a new, unique perspective on the world that you can’t find anywhere else.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tilted his head. “That’s very insightful, Princess Boikova.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She wasn’t sure if her face was warm from the hundreds of candles in the chandelier, the exertion of dancing, or the heat of Galliamov’s hands against her skin. She was suddenly aware that all eyes in the ballroom had fallen upon them, and a fluttering nervousness rising in her chest. She couldn’t quite process what she was feeling, but she found herself smiling up at his dark, shrewd eyes. “You may call me Sasha.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0013"><h2>13. I Still See It All in My Head in Burning Red</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>The crunching beat of boots through snow echoed in Vanya’s ears hours after he had stopped marching. His thighs burned so fiercely he was certain his muscles had crumbled to ashes under his skin. His face stung from the bitter wind that had never ceased slapping him in the face as he had climbed over the endless mountains of the Austrian Alps. His once-smooth skin was chapped and weathered from the cold, as if he had aged a hundred years in a hundred days. At five-and-twenty, he felt as frail and elderly as his Grandfather Bukin, who had recently reached his ninetieth birthday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even as he lay on his thin bedroll under the uneasy shelter of his tent, he could not truly rest. Despite the exhaustion overwhelming every joint, every bone, and every blood vessel in his body, he was too uncomfortable to sleep. He rolled over and groaned, trying to find any resemblance to the massive feather mattress that floated between four carved mahogany posts in his spacious bedroom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For the thousandth time since he’d left home, he cursed himself for his own weakness. He had gladly volunteered for the army the moment recruitment had started, and when he had accepted the position, he’d also accepted all the inconveniences that came with it. It was an honor to serve the Tsar beside his loyal comrades. He had no right to complain about hard beds. He could almost hear his father’s voice reinforcing those words.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Not that this pile of ragged sheets could be considered a bed. Vanya closed his eyes and tried to picture something that reminded him of comfort, but no image came.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He should be grateful. He had seen men who weren’t so lucky—men who had rushed into the bloodshed and never emerged, men who had thrown themselves upon French grenades, men who had run down the hill with two legs and returned with none. He had heard their screams every night, even though they’d been trudging away from Austerlitz for over a month. It wasn’t the screams that haunted him most. It was the silence that followed and hung over him like a funeral shroud, casting a shadow over the life still left inside him.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He curled up his fist and cursed into his teeth. What had he been expecting, anyway? Riding through the streets of Moscow on a mighty steed to the cheers of thousands? Beaming with pride as the Tsar pinned a medal on the breast of his jacket and declared that he had been the most valuable soldier in the war? Dozens of children swarming around his heroic military portrait in the great hall, begging to hear the legend of the valiant Prince Ivan Bukin?</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He’d spent his whole life dreaming of the day he’d enlist in the Imperial Army. He’d beamed with pride when he’d filled out his application and the clerk had bowed in reverence at his name. He’d smiled as the other soldiers had clapped him on the back, asking him what it was </span>
  <em>
    <span>really </span>
  </em>
  <span>like to be the son of Moscow’s most legendary war hero. </span>
</p><p>
  <span>But on the battlefield, it had made no difference. When the cannons cried out their thunderous song and the swords screamed into flesh and bone, it did not matter whose surname he bore. He was merely a soldier—just one more navy uniform in a sea of thousands, just one more blade and one more rifle against the French onslaught.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>An urgent rustling made Vanya roll over. The soldier beside him was thrashing around from a nightmare. They’d been sharing a tent for a week now, and Vanya’s companion had suffered from these episodes every night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Klimov.” Vanya sat up and shook his shoulder gently. “Klimov, wake up.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But no matter how hard he flailed, the man didn’t rouse. His eyes were sealed shut, his mouth frozen in a silent scream. It was as if the nightmare terrified him so deeply that he was paralyzed by it, and only when its deadly talons loosened could he return to the world of the living.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vanya looked around the tent, searching for something to stop the panic. There was no water to dump on his head, no pans to clang together, nothing to snap Klimov out of the hell he was seeing. So Vanya just scooted back and tried to calm his own demeanor, conscious of the anxious energy surrounding them both.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klimov’s eyes flew open, and his body went limp and still. He stared blankly at the ceiling of the tent, his chest rising and falling with shaky but deep breaths. His features were oddly serene as he turned his head to look at Vanya.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry to wake you,” said Klimov. His voice sounded raw from whatever horrors he’d seen, but his words were steady.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, I was already awake.” Vanya edged back to his own bedroll and pulled the blankets over his legs, trying to project casualness and not make a fuss. “It’s quite cold.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed.” Klimov swallowed and pulled the blankets tighter around himself. “I hope nothing is troubling you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I’m fine.” Vanya’s voice wavered on the words, but he clung to them like a lifeboat, as if they could protect him from the uncertainty churning in his gut.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“All right, then. Good night.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Both men lay in silence, but the air between them seemed to hum with a thousand unspoken questions, and Vanya knew neither of them would be sleeping much that night.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you…” Vanya swallowed. “Are you sure you’re all right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klimov remained silent for a few moments before he replied. “My body survived the war far better than I could ask for. But my mind…it troubles me, especially at night. When I fall asleep, I’m in Austerlitz again…but it’s not like the real battle. In real life, I could run and fight, but in my dreams, I’m frozen in place. I see the men dying…I </span>
  <em>
    <span>hear</span>
  </em>
  <span> them dying…and I am helpless to stop it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry,” was all Vanya could say. The aftermath of the battle still clung to his dreams, but he knew Klimov’s pain went far deeper than anything he had ever experienced. Because Vanya had stayed in the back like a coward, shielded from the worst of the carnage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Forgive me,” said Klimov. “I’ve said too much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“No, it’s okay. I understand.” Vanya could sense Klimov’s unease, so he changed the subject. “So, do you have a family back home?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klimov sighed. “Only my mother. We used to live in Petersburg, but we moved to Moscow for her health. And you?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I live with my parents, the Prince and Princess Bukin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’ve heard they’re a very respected family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed.” Vanya leaned back to stare at the ceiling of the tent. “And I have two cousins at home—Sasha and Vika.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>In the chaos of the war, he had not allowed himself to think of Sasha. He had been overwhelmed by the suffering, the pain, the brutality of the new world he’d entered, and he’d feared even mentioning her name in such a place, as if merely remembering her would plunge her into the bottomless pit alongside him. But now, lying in the silent darkness of the tent, he saw her clearly in his mind: her silken blonde hair, her long limbs, her rare but flawless smile. The memory felt like a needle pressed into his heart.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>All this time, he had seen this war as an opportunity to become more than simply the son of Prince Bukin. He had dreamed of glory and adventure and fanfare, but he had forgotten his duty to Sasha. He had promised her he would fight bravely and return safely, yet here he was, cowering in his tent and complaining about his uncomfortable bedroll while soldiers around him had been damaged beyond repair.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I believe I met them once,” said Klimov. “How do they get on?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vanya groaned. “Well, to be quite honest, they were both quite cross with me for leaving. Vika is like a sister to me, and Sasha…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Klimov caught the unspoken implications of what Vanya did not say. “She is a clever, handsome young woman. Are you betrothed?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vanya squeezed his eyes shut. “My father will not allow it. Although it is no fault of her own, of course. He…he wants me to marry into the Tarasov line. You are acquainted with that family, are you not?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Only by name. My colleague Trankov is married to Princess Tatiana—not the matriarch, but her granddaughter. In fact, I’ve never met the great dame myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Vanya laughed. “Consider it a blessing. That woman can be ruthless when she wants something done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I can imagine. Trankov has told me many stories.” A smile had crept into Klimov’s voice. “Which Tarasov do they want you to marry?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Duchess Aliona Yagudina. Commander Yagudin’s daughter.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oof.” As members of the Moscow regiment, both Vanya and Klimov were aware of the commander’s unruly temper. “Well, I hope the daughter has little in common with the father.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s not half as volatile as he is. But she’s…stern. She has no sense of humor.” He smiled, remembering Sasha’s casual sarcasm and unmatched wit. “I don’t dislike her. But for me, it’s not enough to simply </span>
  <em>
    <span>not dislike</span>
  </em>
  <span> the woman I’m going to marry. I want a wife I truly care for. I guess that makes me an idealist, a fool, but…”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then I am a fool too,” said Klimov. “I believe our souls are formed in pairs, and fate will bring together those who were made for each other. To marry anyone but my soulmate would be intolerable to me.” He frowned in the darkness. “And since she and I can never be together, I have chosen not to marry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What happened to her?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“We courted when she first came out, but she chose another man. When he abandoned her, she married a rich landowner in Perm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What was her name?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ksenia. Ksenia Andreyevna Stolbova.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0014"><h2>14. A Stranger Whose Laugh I Could Recognize Anywhere</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Dima Kozlovskii pulled on the suffocating collar of his dinner jacket and tried to catch his breath in the sweltering heat of the ballroom. Although the bitterness of February still raged on outside the walls of General Mishin’s mansion, the bodies packed from wall to wall and the golden candles glowing everywhere he looked made the room feel like an inferno.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The elderly general was lingering by the window, his jacket laden with medals from the wars he’d won. His sister, the small but sharp-eyed Grand Duchess Moskvina, stood at his side in a smart blue dress, bobbing her head along to the waltz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There were a dozen couples on the dance floor, but Dima did not feel compelled to join them. Before the war, he would have found great delight in the merry, exuberant rhythm of the dances. But when he looked out at the young people spinning and leaping, he felt like he did not belong amongst them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A familiar face whirled past him, and he took a step back. Sasha Boikova was dancing with a distinguished-looking, dark-haired young man. It was Count Aleksandr Galliamov, one of Dima’s childhood acquaintances. He moved around the ballroom with measured grace while Sasha scurried along after him. Her lavender dress swooped joyfully as she spun, and her golden-brown hair had been curled into hundreds of tiny ringlets and pinned with an amethyst barrette. Bathed in the warm light of the ball, she looked older, more elegant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>For a moment, her eyes flickered in his direction. Dima turned away and let his gaze fall on something harmless—Sofia Tuktamysheva pulling Adian Pitkeev across the dance floor in a lively rendition of a waltz.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He had made his choice on the morning he’d signed up for the military. He would accept her refusal and cease pursuing her. He would cut his losses and move on before he ruined anything further. He had been a fool to imagine she would ever see him as anything but the hyper, unruly boy she’d met all those years ago.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When he had been away at war, he had felt like a different person—less of a spirited young prince and more of a responsible, independent man. Yet when he had arrived home, there had been no true change. His mother had wept for half an hour when he’d come through the door of his parents’ house. His father had told him he should be proud of his courage. General Mishin had invited him to this gala to honor all the soldiers of the Petersburg regiment. But as he stood at the edge of the ballroom, he couldn’t shake the feeling that his efforts had been in vain, that nobody here saw him as anything more than he’d been when he’d left.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Beneath his indignation, he couldn’t blame them. He did not deserve a parade in his name or a bronze monument in the town square. He had not survived the war from incredible bravery or strength or cleverness. He was no hero. He was just an awfully lucky bastard who’d managed to evade catastrophe in one battle before getting sent home with all four limbs still attached.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He ducked out of the ballroom and made his way down the long, narrow corridors of Mishin’s mansion. The house was decorated in austere mahogany, so unlike the Grand Duchess Moskvina’s cheerful home of long windows and pastel frescos. He wandered past the library and opened the dark, paneled door that led to the drawing room.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He was not alone.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A girl in a blue dress was trying to wrestle a small child onto the green leather sofa. The boy flailed and cried as she hauled him up, and Dima recognized him as Mikhail Boikov’s three-year-old son, Yuri.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“There, there, that’s a good boy,” the girl said softly. “If you sit quietly in here, I’ll bring you some strawberry tarts. Does that sound like a good plan?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The boy nodded, and the girl straightened to rejoin the party. She flushed and stumbled back as she noticed Dima for the first time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, I didn’t know someone else was in here,” she said. “Did you just walk in?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, just after you did.” He took a closer look at her. She was petite and slender, yet the elegance of her head and shoulders gave her a regal presence. Her dark hair was coiled in a thick braid at the back of her head, and her brown eyes were striking and deep like a pot of fresh coffee. She had the noble bearing of a lady, but her dress was simple and slightly faded, and he had never seen her amongst the fashionable women in Petersburg. “I’m Prince Dmitri Kozlovskii. And who might you be, ma’am?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled. “Evgenia Tutberidze. I’m the new governess to Mikhail and Stanislava Boikov’s children.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tutberidze. He had heard of that name—it belonged to a prominent lady in Moscow who was rather notorious for seducing her way into the Tarasov family. But he didn’t want to mention the scandal in front of Evgenia, who seemed like such a dignified and pleasant young woman. “Oh, yes, the Boikovs! They are…some of the finest people I have ever met.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>His heart shifted even as he said those words. There had been a time when he had held the Boikov family in higher esteem than his own. There had been a time when he’d seen himself playing billiards with Mikhail and Aliev, discussing politics with the old prince as though he was a second father, bringing flowers to the matriarch to celebrate her name day. There had been a time when all the wonders of the universe seemed to swim in Sasha’s sparkling blue eyes, when all his soul wanted was the feeling of her hand in his, when he would have sold his fortune and knowledge just to call her </span>
  <em>
    <span>Princess Kozlovskaya</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And in part of his heart, that time had not ended.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He startled out of the tangled net inside his head as the girl spoke.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Indeed. I’ve only worked for them for three days, but they have been nothing but amiable and kind to me. You see, I’ve never been to Petersburg before, so it is all an exciting adventure for me.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Really? Then let me welcome you to this great city.” He swept an arm around, as if he could show her the whole world in one motion. “Where do you hail from?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Moscow. My mother thought it would be a good idea for me to explore the world now that I have come of age.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you traveling alone?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Yes, in fact. But I made friends with another young woman on the train, and there were guards in each cabin, so I felt very safe. Besides, I am not a child. I have lived for two decades in this world without encountering any sort of true disaster, and I don’t plan to meet it anytime soon.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima blinked. High-born women in Petersburg never traveled alone, especially young and unmarried ones. “Well, you are a very courageous lady, Miss Tutberidze.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugged. “It was nothing. And please, call me Evgenia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried to speak, but his usual casual confidence felt shaken, as if the center of the world had somehow moved without his knowledge. “I hope you enjoy your stay here…Evgenia.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She smiled and bowed her head. “I believe I will.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He nodded, although he wasn’t sure what he was agreeing with. “I—I should get back to the party. General Mishin is giving a speech to honor the soldiers from Austerlitz.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, you were in the military?” Evgenia’s eyes softened. “Thank you so much for your service. I’m sure you fought bravely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Dima groaned. “Truth be told, there wasn’t much of an opportunity to fight. General Mishin sent us home immediately after the first battle.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“But that’s good news. There will be less fighting, less trouble.” She tilted her head. “You called me courageous simply for riding a train alone. I think I have the right to call you courageous for fighting in a war.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He tried to maintain a sense of nonchalance, but he could feel himself blushing. “That’s very kind of you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She shrugged. “Well, I shouldn’t keep you any longer. Besides, I promised Yuri some strawberry tarts, and I’m not one to go back on my word.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Evgenia collected Yuri from the sofa, and the three of them abandoned the cool silence of the drawing room for the hot bustle of the gala. As Dima rounded the corner to join his comrades in the ballroom, he nearly ran into a woman.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I’m sorry, ma’am, I didn’t see—” he began.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was Sasha.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Her face was frozen in awkward shock as she realized who he was. She stared blankly at him for a moment, then dipped her head in greeting. “Good—good evening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>There was no fondness in her voice, not even an acknowledgment of the childhood they’d spent together. Her carefree, curious expression had been replaced by something more reserved, refined. In her elegant gown and her curled hair, she looked like a stranger.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Good evening, Sasha,” he said.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She did not meet his gaze. “I’m glad you returned home safely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Neither made eye contact as they stood there awkwardly,  Dima cleared his throat. “I—I need to join the others for General Mishin’s speech.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, of course.” Sasha swallowed. “I should go, too.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And so they parted, two strangers who had known each other for their entire lives.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0015"><h2>15. I Don’t Trust Nobody, and Nobody Trusts Me</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Eteri Georgievna Tutberidze, mistress of five vast estates and the eighth-largest fortune in Moscow, was the most peculiar mystery in Russian high society.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She was the most prominent topic of gossip at every distinguished event. Her name was whispered at debutante balls and galas, at political salons and philosophical universities, at dirty taverns and run-down mills, at bustling bakeries and peaceful parks. Yet despite the endless conversations that followed her every move, she remained the greatest enigma on the social ladder.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The gossiping women of Moscow had spun a dozen theories about her past, each more outlandish than the next. Some believed she was a tavern wench who’d secured a favorable position through nothing but her feminine charms. Some believed she was a foreign agent, sent by the Turks as a weapon against the Russian Empire.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Grand Duchess Tatiana Anatolievna Tarasova believed she was the creation of Satan himself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Madame Eteri reclined on the chaise and frowned at the thick ivory invitation in her slender hand. Clearly it had been written by a scribe with a steady hand, for the Grand Duchess’s handwriting was as erratic and unstable as her personality. But the wording had been chosen by Tarasova herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <em>
    <span>We cordially invite Prince Sergei Tarasov to the Spring Ball at the mansion of the Grand Duchess Tatiana Tarasova on April 8, 1806. He is permitted to bring the guests of his discretion.</span>
  </em>
</p><p>
  <span>She tossed the invitation on the table and laughed darkly. Tarasova had spent the last twenty years trying to invent creative ways to leave Eteri off the guestlist for her soirees, but every attempt had failed miserably.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Madame Eteri was already dressed in her finest gown for the Spring Ball later that evening. She had spared no expense on her ensemble—a brocade gown in a stunning shade of steel blue, sewn with thousands of tiny glass beads and hemmed in silver thread. Her luxurious curls of chestnut hair were pinned up with diamond barrettes, and her sharp eyes were lined with kohl. At two-and-forty, she was still a fiercely striking figure, ten times as charming as any blushing maiden and ten times as dangerous as a hissing viper. In this dress, she would not be seen as merely the woman who warmed Prince Tarasov’s bed, but the heiress of the greatest fortune in Moscow.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>No matter how outrageous the legends grew, each contained a shard of truth that belonged to the great mirror of her soul. She had been born to a poor trader with four elder daughters and no sons in the southern port city of Astrakhan. Her great beauty and sly tongue had caught the attention of an elderly landowner named Tutberidze, who had given her his name, his fortune, and his withered hand in marriage. After his death two years later, she had moved to Moscow—clever, respected, and rich.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Life in the heart of Russia suited her far better than the world she had known in that ancient, far-flung port. During the summer, Petersburg women flooded to country houses in Moscow, and Madame Eteri had effortlessly slipped into their midst, becoming a fixture of society while learning the European way of life. Yet living as a widow when she was still as young and attractive as a debutante annoyed her, and she soon sought out another courtship.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It was in Moscow where she met Prince Sergei Tarasov, son of the fearsome matriarch Tatiana Tarasova. Sergei, while neither handsome nor clever, offered Eteri everything she needed—a platform to raise herself to the top of Moscow society. He was a widower with one son, and his mild manners were deliciously appealing to her intense, restless heart. He was hopelessly smitten with her from the moment they first met, and he had offered his hand three months later without looking back.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Grand Duchess Tarasova had been outraged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>So Sergei had hired Madame Eteri as a governess to his son. Within the walls of his estates, they lay in one bed and spoke as husband and wife. He had sired all five of her daughters, although they bore the name Tutberidze rather than Tarasova—for to the rest of the world, they were nothing but a prince and his loyal servant.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Of course, not everyone was easily fooled. Sergei delighted in indulging Madame Eteri with extravagant gifts, from fur coats to diamond earrings to velvet chaises. The east wing of his Moscow mansion served as her personal suite, and she received a salary far more generous than that of any governess. Officially, the brougham and horses belonged to Sergei’s son, but no one batted an eye when Eteri took it for a trip to the tailor or the jeweler.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And finally, the child she had been hired to supervise was now a man of eight-and-twenty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She recognized his playful knock on her door and arranged herself on the chaise, letting the light from the window shimmer against her cheek. “Come in, dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daniil Sergeyevich Tarasov was beaming as he stepped into the room. His dark hair was trimmed close to his head on the sides and swept back from his forehead in the latest fashion, and a neatly trimmed goatee framed his sweet, almost feminine mouth. His brown eyes were soft with a poet’s longing, but when his temper flared, they blazed like iron plunged into a forge. All his features had belonged to his late mother, whose portrait still hung in the great hall.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You look stunning, ma’am,” he said. “Your gown suits you well. Although in all honesty, every gown in your wardrobe suits you exquisitely.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She waved her hand, trying to dismiss the excitement his words brewed in her chest. “Oh, Daniil, you flatter me too much.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Flattery was not my intent.” He bowed his head sheepishly, but there was a casual assurance in his stance that suggested he felt no true embarrassment. “I am simply being what I am. And I am simply a man.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He crossed the room with loose, silky steps and knelt beside her chaise. He was already dressed in his finery—a fitted gray overcoat embroidered with a scene of dancing bears at the hem. A silvery cashmere cravat peeked out of the thick collar, concealing his pale, fragile neck.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She placed her hand on his knee. “Not now, Daniil. We leave for the Spring Ball in an hour.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daniil tilted his head. “I should think an hour would be more than sufficient.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eteri’s breath tore at her throat with the urge to say yes, but she pushed him back. “No. Not until later tonight, after this charade is done.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“As you wish, ma’am.” He rose from his knees and dusted off his coat. “I’ve already instructed Rylov to prepare the carriage.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Excellent, dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>At first, she’d always thought Daniil’s wide eyes and loving glances towards her had been little more than the foolish puppy love of a teenage boy. She had tried to steer him towards girls his own age, sent him to lavish balls full of beautiful debutantes. But even as he’d grown from a starry-eyed schoolboy to an assured young man, he’d had eyes only for Eteri. She’d woke to find romantic poetry under her door and returned to her room to find it filled with roses.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eteri had no illusions about her own questionable morality, but she refused to take advantage of a lovesick child. As a mother, she had no forgiveness in her heart for those who preyed on the innocent. When she’d felt the first stirrings of attraction towards Daniil, she had shuddered at the idea, even though he had already passed his twenty-second birthday before these feelings had accosted her. But soon she had found herself helpless against his persistent charm, and for the past five years, they had been stealing passionate moments together in the halls of this old mansion.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sergei knew nothing of it. He continued to treat Eteri as his beloved concubine while his son took her to his own bed inside Sergei’s house.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Mama! Mama!” Anya, Eteri’s youngest daughter, rushed into the room, nearly running into Daniil. Her long brown hair was bound in two long braids, and she wore a bright red and violet dress. She had always been a delicate child, and at thirteen, she looked barely ten.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hush, hush, dear,” Eteri said. “What’s all the fuss about?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sasha’s gotten herself into a mess again. She’s up in the maple tree on the south side of the house. She said she was chasing a squirrel.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eteri closed her eyes to suppress the groan rising in her throat. Sasha, her fourth daughter, had been a lost cause in the ways of feminine propriety since birth. “I’ll be right there, dear.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daniil shook his head as Anya skittered out of the room. “That girl’s a downright fiend.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eteri sighed. “If she was a lady of rank, I would have sent her to finishing school before her ninth birthday. But alas, she is a mere commoner, and I fear no amount of finishing can make her a true gentlewoman. Fortunately, Alina and Alenka have grown into admirable, lovely girls. I can only hope Anya follows their example. And as for Zhenya…I have my reservations about sending her into the world, but what else could be done? She is already twenty—she is not immortal.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A smile twitched on Daniil’s lips. “You speak as though twenty is as elderly as ninety.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For a woman, there is no difference.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I should think differently, ma’am. You are beyond twenty, and you have never looked so radiant in your life.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She laughed, a light tinkling laced with mirth. “Few women are blessed with youth beyond their maidenhood. Often, the best years of a girl’s life are passed before she even reaches the age of majority.” She frowned. “I suppose I should go out and see what dreadful mess the little beast has gotten herself into today.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Daniil’s eyes flickered with amusement as Eteri gathered her stole and swept down the stairs to the house’s grand front doors. At the back of the house, she spied a tangled mess of hair and limbs entwined in the towering maple and cursed under her breath. Anya was standing beneath the tree, squinting up at the predicament her sister had made.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha’s wheat-colored hair had straggled out of her braids and fell in unruly tangles at her waist. Her dress was torn and dirty, but her blue eyes were sparkling as she smiled down at her mother.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Hello, Mother!” she called. “I found an entire family of squirrels up here!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eteri bit down hard on her lip to contain her rising frustration. She had always looked harshly upon mothers who reprimanded their children in public. She believed that a mother must be constantly in command of her own offspring, and shouting was a form of surrender, an indication that her children’s misbehavior had gotten the best of her. So all scolding in Madame Eteri’s house was done in private.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Sasha, dear, why aren’t you dressed for the Spring Ball yet?” There was no warmth in the word </span>
  <em>
    <span>dear</span>
  </em>
  <span>, no polite inquiry in her question. “Won’t you be joining us at the celebration tonight?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Unlike most high-born children, who did not attend soirees until they came of age, Eteri’s daughters had been present at evening parties since they could stand on two legs. Perhaps it was acceptable for a wealthy heiress to debut upon reaching adulthood, but with no title or fortune, the Tutberidze girls needed to make themselves visible to potential suitors as early as possible.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha sighed. “I’ll join you, but I hope you know I take no pleasure in any of it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eteri frowned. “Well, pleasure isn’t the purpose of life, is it? Come now, climb down and put on something tolerable. I won’t have the Grand Duchess thinking me an unfit mother.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Fearless and nimble, Sasha swung down from the tree. “But you hate the Grand Duchess.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eteri smiled, a snakelike expression. “Right you are, dear. It is desirable to impress one’s friends, but it is imperative to impress one’s enemies. Have I not taught you anything?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha shrugged. “I just don’t understand why girls need to spend their time spinning around an old house in these ridiculously uncomfortable dresses when they could be running outside.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Because you are a lady.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I thought you were always complaining that we don’t have titles.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, how much you still have to learn.” Eteri started to smooth down Sasha’s hair, then drew her hand away when she noticed the dirt flaked in the pale strands. “Our worth in life is not based on what we are, Sasha. It is based on what people </span>
  <em>
    <span>think </span>
  </em>
  <span>we are.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Eteri opened the door, she found her two remaining daughters already sitting on the pastel tapestry sofa of the entry parlor.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Look, Sasha,” she said with deceptive sweetness. “There are your two sisters, clean and dressed for the ball.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Sasha grinned at the two girls, and they smiled back before one of the maids caught sight of Sasha’s dirty gown and nearly dragged her upstairs for a speedy bath.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alina raised a delicate hand to her mouth to stop her laughter at the sight of her messy sister. At eighteen, she was quickly blooming from a comely girl into the fairest of ladies. Rather than the decadent, crafted allure of her mother, she had the simple beauty that came from a sweet face, a gentle soul, and a gracious temper. Dark-haired and petite, her quiet disposition belied the clarity of her mind and the kindness of her heart. In her black-and-white gown with a fluttering white cloak around her slender shoulders, she looked like a brilliant young swan.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Alenka, who was sixteen, sat with her head inclined and her spine perfectly straight. Her golden hair was bound around her head in an elegant coil, and her gown and cloak were a rich shade of violet, the latter trimmed with red ermine. Although she was shorter than Alina, she moved with an assured dignity that could have rivaled the Tsarina herself.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Twenty minutes later, Sasha came sprinting down the stairs, her hair bound in a quickly braided bun. A cross, stout maid was chasing her from behind, trying to fasten the last few hooks of Sasha’s fresh blue dress. Eteri closed her eyes and prayed for patience. That child was truly a trial sent by God.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She’s ready, madam,” said the maid. “There was no time for a full bath, but I got all the filth off her. Is everything as it should be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Eteri frowned at the cluster of four girls before her. It had been three months since her eldest, Evgenia, had left home for Petersburg, but her absence still haunted Eteri every time she saw her children assembled and realized that one was missing. Evgenia was far from perfect, but she was the closest thing to a favorite daughter Eteri would ever have. She was unrivaled in cleverness and humor, and evening meals were far less merry without her company.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But it was the only logical solution. Since the Grand Duchess Tarasova would not allow Sergei to claim paternity of children born out of wedlock, all of Eteri’s daughters were legally treated as no more than children of a governess. They could not inherit Sergei’s fortune upon his death, and Tarasova had made it clear that no child of Madame Eteri would ever find their name in her own will. Marrying high-born gentlemen, as Eteri had done in her youth, was the only means to elevate themselves to the status of nobility.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But the daughters of Eteri Tutberidze had been taught to never settle for less than double of what they deserved.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0016"><h2>16. You Should've Said No</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>When Aliev returned home, he was broken.</p><p>         That is not to say he was maimed. He had not lost any limbs; he could lift his arms and walk as easily as ever. He had not sustained any permanent injury to the head that impaired his brain. His blisters were healed, his cuts had closed, and his muscles had finally stopped aching from the constant marching.</p><p>         He couldn’t even say his mind was afflicted. Sometimes, he still dreamed of musket shots and falling men, but every time he opened his eyes, he was safe in his home with Yulia sleeping at his side.</p><p>         Perhaps that was what bothered him most.</p><p>         When he had left for the army, he’d had no idea she was pregnant. He could sense that something had been different about her, that she’d been tired and reserved, but he didn’t dare mention it. Their marriage had never been one of open communication and confidence, and he hadn’t wanted to bring on any additional stress.</p><p>         It had been a shock to come home and find her clearly with child. Two months later, after a long and difficult labor, she had given birth to a son. They had named him Konstantin Dmitrievich Aliev – Kostya for short. Already, the baby’s resemblance to Yulia was startling. He had pale hair and hazel eyes, and sometimes when Aliev looked at him, all he saw was Uncle Misha.</p><p>         Somehow it felt like a lie. He knew this was his son, that this boy would bear his name and carry on his legacy. But Yulia was a sister to him, not a wife, so the child felt like a nephew rather than a son.</p><p>         One night, about three months after he had returned home, Aliev woke in a cold sweat. He’d been dreaming about the war again – but not the gunshots or the screaming soldiers or the endless marching. It was the night after Austerlitz, lying in the warmth of Samarin’s bedroll, both too shaken to sleep. Their hips had been touching, their legs entangled in the dark, and when Aliev had gone in for a kiss, Samarin had pulled him closer and kissed him back.</p><p>         Aliev reached under the embroidered pillow and closed his fingers around the cool metal buckle he’d threaded through the stitching. When the Moscow and Petersburg regiments had split to march home, he and Samarin had exchanged boot buckles. It was an innocent token of what had happened between them, something no one would understand.</p><p>         The metal suddenly felt hot in his sweating hand, and he risked a glance at Yulia. She was turned away from him, her body stiff. More often than not, she lay awake for hours, staring into the darkness. He wondered what she saw there.</p><p>         Did she ever long for someone else? In his absence, had there been another gentleman who had caught her eye? Could she resign herself to this arrangement forever and never wonder if another heart could beat in time with hers where his had failed?</p><p>         He squeezed the buckle in his hand, then hooked it through the tightly woven fabric on the backside of the pillow and lay down.</p><p>         “I’m sorry,” he whispered, pressing his face against the embroidery that smelled like Yulia’s hand lotion. “I’m so sorry.”</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>“When did you first understand,” Aliev whispered, “that you didn’t love women?”</p><p>His own words, barely more than a hushed rasp on his lips, terrified him. He was painfully aware of every heartbeat rattling his body, humming in the darkness of the tent. His bedroll was not in its usual place against the tent wall, but in the center of the tent under its low apex. Samarin had placed his own bedding a few inches away, and his warm breath against Aliev’s forehead sent tingles down his limbs.</p><p>“Actually, that’s not what it was like for me,” said Samarin. “I do love women. But a few years ago, I started to realize…that I felt the same way about men as I feel about women.”</p><p>“So you’re not like me.” Aliev couldn’t hide the disappointment in his voice.</p><p>“No.” Samarin’s hand flew up to Aliev’s cheek. “I am not the same as you, but I feel the same feelings you do. I grew up in Moscow, but I lived in Petersburg for three years. Does my love for Moscow erase every happy memory I experienced in Petersburg?”</p><p>Aliev’s tongue had gone cold, his throat had closed up, and unsure of what to do next, he had leaned in for a kiss.</p><p>This was the memory that refused to stop playing in his head as he walked through the garden with Prince Misha outside the Boikov mansion. The air was still bitter with the last sting of the fading winter, and their cheeks were flushed pink above their collars and cravats.</p><p>“You have nothing to be afraid of,” said Misha. “When Stasya first told me she was with child, I thought I would fail so miserably that my own father would be too ashamed to claim me as his son! I think it’s fair to say that there’s nothing more terrifying in this world than a tiny, wailing infant.” He grinned. He was older than Aliev, but his face was still round, young, and mischievous. “If I survived fatherhood, so can you.”</p><p>“Thanks.” Aliev buried his hands deep in his coat pockets. “It’s just…I feel like I should be more excited. I mean, I’m happy that the baby was born healthy, but sometimes when I look at him…it’s like it’s someone else’s baby.”</p><p>Misha tilted his head. “Well, I can guarantee you that Yulia is a very faithful woman, so you can rest assured that her baby was not sired by another man while we were off chasing Frenchmen. She is stubbornly loyal to the people she loves—even if they don’t deserve it.”</p><p>Despite the cold, Aliev’s neck was suddenly crawling with sweat. He knew all too well that Yulia was the angel he did not deserve. He should have been bound to the whipping post and flogged until his back was scored with long red scars that would never fade, a constant reminder of the sin he had done. He should have told Commander Plushenko to shoot him for such an unforgivable offense.</p><p>“How did you know you were in love with Stasya?” Aliev said.</p><p>Misha shrugged. “She was everything I had ever dreamed my wife would be. When I first saw her at her debutante ball, I felt like she had tied a string around my heart, and no matter where I went, she would follow me. Even when I tried, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. Whenever I was near her, I felt like I could spend the rest of my life trapped in a single room with her and never try to escape, because everything I wanted from the world was right in front of me.” He winked. “And she’s very pretty.”</p><p>Misha’s words painted a portrait before Aliev’s eyes — an image of Eden found right in Petersburg. But for Aliev, the ideas of marriage and courtship had never roused anything in him but bored indifference. Unlike Samarin, he had never felt any deep emotion towards women. He admired women for their wit and diligence, but never for their beauty. He had never dreamed of his future wife as Misha had. Even as a child, he had been convinced that he could never love any lady enough to give her his name or heirs.</p><p>Yet here he was. A husband. A father. A liar.</p><p>“Misha…” He closed his eyes against the swelling migraine in his temples. “Do you remember that time I kissed you?”</p><p>Misha’s mouth curled up into a smile. “Yes, I do. It was the day your mother looked at me like I was some sort of enchanted toad and I had to make up this ridiculous story about rehearsing Shakespeare because I didn’t want them to think you’d lost your head.”</p><p>Aliev sighed. “Well, I think I truly am insane. I’ve fought it for years, but no matter how much I try to fix it, I can’t change.”</p><p>Misha frowned. “You’ve always been a hard fellow to understand, but this time, I really don’t have the faintest idea what you’re talking about.”</p><p>Aliev wheeled around, squeezing his eyes shut so tightly his whole face scrunched up. “I had an affair while I was in the army.”</p><p>Misha’s lips parted a fraction of an inch. His eyes pinned Aliev in a magnetic gaze — not with fury, not with contempt, but with pure shock. Those hazel eyes, those round pink cheeks, that dark blond hair, that pensive mouth…the face staring back at Aliev was Yulia’s. In his frustration, in his desperation to find someone who would truly understand his suffering, he had forgotten the imprudence of such a revelation.</p><p>Aliev had just confessed that he’d cheated on Misha’s sister.</p><p>He had seen Misha lose his temper before. Usually, his brother-in-law was a friendly, good-natured chap. But the only thing greater than Misha’s kindness was his loyalty to his family, and Aliev knew that man would break the neck of any creature who dared to hurt one of his own.</p><p>He stiffened, waiting for the blow he knew he deserved, but Misha simply spoke.</p><p>“You’re an idiot, you know that? You’re a bloody idiot. I understand that these are trying times, but there is no justifiable circumstance where it is acceptable to be unfaithful to one’s wife! You stood before God and her family and promised to serve her as all good husbands do. You swore an oath to her, Aliev. You sired her <em> son </em>.”</p><p>“Misha, I’m sorry, I—”</p><p>“You willingly volunteered for a war while she was with child, left her alone all those months, and while she was worrying every day that you would be shot, you had the audacity to take some wench into your bed!”</p><p>“Misha, just listen to me! I’m trying to tell you I’m sorry, and I—” Aliev froze as the full impact of Misha’s words hit him. “It wasn’t a wench.”</p><p>“Then who the devil—” Misha’s face blanched, and he stumbled back several steps. “Oh, God. <em> God </em>, Aliev.”</p><p>“I’m sorry!” Aliev shook his fists in the air. “It was a mistake. It all happened so fast…but it was wrong. And now I’m the most unforgivable bastard in the empire.”</p><p>“Well, you’ve got that right.” Misha stuck out his chin. “I just can’t believe you would do something so irresponsible. I thought you were better than this.” He bit his lip. “How long will you keep lying to everyone you love? Why can’t you just tell the truth for once in your life?”</p><p>“Because you have no idea what they will do to me if I do!” Aliev threw up his hands. “You will never understand, Boikov. You can look at your wife and children and feel satisfied. You’re <em> normal </em>. You can tell the truth every day because you know nobody will burn you at the stake for it!” He scrubbed at his face in frustration. “I’ve tried to change and I can’t. I have to carry this burden as long as I live. Could you imagine if you couldn’t have Stasya because the entire world thought it was wrong?”</p><p>“Yes, I can! And I would not pursue her because I have enough respect for her not to ruin her reputation!”</p><p>Aliev sucked in a breath between his teeth. “I thought I could trust you. I thought you wouldn’t judge me for being the way I am.”</p><p>“That is not what this is about.” Misha sighed and tucked his hands in his pockets. “I know that you are different, and I respect that. I’ve never exposed you because I think you’re a capital friend and a good man. But Yulia is my sister, and if I must choose between you and her, I will choose her every time.”</p><p>“But you think I’m wrong. You think I’m a sinner, just like everyone else in the world will.”</p><p>“Yes, I do. I think you’re a despicable liar, and if I were you, I would drop down on my knees right here and ask God for forgiveness. To be honest, I would greatly enjoy punching you in the face right now.” Misha swallowed. “But I would strike you just as hard if it had been a woman.”</p><p>Aliev blinked. “What?”</p><p>“Aliev, I don’t care if you want to kiss every man in the Imperial Army. It is in your nature, and it would be a sin to make you deny it. But you broke a vow to Yulia — a vow to remain faithful to her.” Misha took a deep breath. “When you first married her, I tried to fool myself into believing that you could love her, that you had left all of this behind. As the years went on, I could see that I was deceiving myself.”</p><p>“I really tried.” Aliev’s voice cracked. “I believed it as much as you did.”</p><p>“I know.” Misha placed his hands on Aliev’s shoulders — not to shove him or shake him, but simply to hold his attention. “Marriages are rarely built upon love. In a perfect world, we could all marry the person our souls were crafted for, and everyone would be happy. So I don’t expect you to love her. But she is your wife by both law and church, and by God, if you hurt her, I will not show you such mercy.” He released Aliev, sending him stumbling back. “You need to tell Yulia the truth.”</p><p>Aliev closed his eyes. “I—I can’t.”</p><p>Misha’s gaze hardened, and when Aliev dared to meet his eyes, all he saw was Yulia staring back at him. “Then I can’t forgive you.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0017"><h2>17. Stay Away from Juliet</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Princess Zhenya Tarasova pressed the soles of her silk slippers against the cold marble floor and willed her spine not to bend under the gaze of the fearsome matriarch at the head of the long mahogany table. The massive dining hall was lined with dozens of well-dressed guests for the first ball of autumn, but Grand Duchess Tatiana Anatolievna Tarasova’s sharp eyes cut across all of them to Zhenya with frightening intensity.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“My dear Zhenya,” said the old woman. Her deep blue brocade gown was stitched with silver thread, and the flickering candlelight cast an otherworldly shimmer on her curled hair, reminding Zhenya of an ancient, formidable Fae queen. “How lovely you look tonight. Has she not grown into a positive stunner?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The table murmured their approval.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She is a rare beauty,” said Countess Sotnikova. “She has such an uncanny resemblance to the Princess of Sweden, don’t you think? My dear, you must agree to pose for a portrait. I know a painter from Italy who could capture your features perfectly.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, thank you, Adelichka.” Tarasova waved her hand, trying to hush up the talkative countess. “Isn’t it a pity that such a beautiful girl finds herself still unwed at three-and-twenty?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya’s heartbeat faltered, and she felt color rising in her pale cheeks, but she inclined her head. She had promised Vovan she would be brave. She would not bow. She would not let her grandmother force her to accept an offer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had originally planned to tell the Grand Duchess of her intentions to marry Vovan after he returned from the war. When he’d left, it had been simply understood that he would bring home a medal from Austerlitz and earn Tarasova’s respect through military success. But Mishin had pulled the troops out of the war before Vovan could even reach the battlefield, let alone receive any honors.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya felt the weight of this problem pressing down on her shoulders as she spoke. “Thank you, Grandmamma. I appreciate your compliment. But surely no one at this table wants to discuss trivial things like suitors and betrothals.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, hush.” Tarasova stuck out her chin and raised her glass. “You are a Tarasova, and that makes you one of the most eligible ladies in the empire. Why, even a Tsar’s daughter would pale in comparison to such grace and beauty. I see no reason why we can’t discuss the matter here.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Princess Tanya Trankova, Zhenya’s older sister, inclined her head. She was a small, pretty blonde with clever, sparkling brown eyes. “While we appreciate your interest, Grandmamma, I think my sister is perfectly capable of managing her own affairs.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Definitely!” said Tanya’s husband, Prince Maxim Trankov. “Besides, I’ve always found this sort of conversation unbearably boring.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya risked flashing them a small smile of thanks. Trankov never refrained from speaking his mind, and Tanya had always been fiercely protective of her little sister.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tarasova frowned. “I assure you, this will not take long. What have you to say on this matter, Zhenya?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya felt her hands tremble in her lap, but she kept her voice steady. “As the granddaughter of such a strong and respected woman, I have been afforded the great privilege to witness the power a single lady of good fortune and status can wield in society without the burden of a husband.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tarasova’s eyes froze in her face. She had been widowed for several years now, but her influence over Moscow society had only doubled since her husband’s passing. “It is advantageous to be free in old age, but unwise to be unwed in youth. A widow is respected; a spinster is shunned.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, I don’t see what all the fuss is about,” said Zhenya’s mother, Princess Nina Mikhailovna Mozer Tarasova. She was a short, stout woman with small eyes peering through a pair of thick spectacles that never left her round face. “Marriage is a great advantage for a woman. Go find yourself a husband before they’re all gobbled up. I daresay, you might even enjoy it if he’s handsome enough. Look at your cousin Natasha—she wasted no time snatching up that fine-looking Enbert lad. Really, I can’t say I blame her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Three seats away from Zhenya, Princess Natasha looked ready to shrink into her seat until she slipped beneath the table. She was a gentle, dark-haired beauty, tall and elegant like a swan. Beside her, her husband Enbert squeezed her hand. They had both grown accustomed to Princess Nina’s unpolished, outlandish comments.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grand Duchess Tarasova wrinkled her nose at Nina. Zhenya’s parents had been the result of an arranged marriage between the Tarasovs and the powerful Mozer family, who were direct descendants of the first boyars in the Russian Empire. In exchange for Tatiana Anatolievna’s handsome, well-spoken eldest son, the Mozers had offered the hand of their daughter Nina. Although lacking in charm, refinement, or beauty, Nina was the heiress to the vast fortune the family had amassed from their successful vodka distillery, and the Grand Duchess had agreed to overlook the bride’s faults the moment she learned of the inheritance. So for the past thirty years, Tatiana Anatolievna had been tolerating Nina’s presence for the sake of the greater good: a wealthier future for the Tarasov bloodline. In the meantime, Zhenya’s father had maintained his sanity only by spending long hours in his study, hidden away from his high-strung wife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Zhenya will do nothing of the sort,” said Tarasova. “She comes from the purest bloodline in Russia, and she does not need to ‘snatch up’ any gentleman. In fact, her great dilemma is not whether the suitors will come, but whether there are any suitors who deserve her hand.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya straightened in her chair and met her grandmother’s eye. “With all due respect, Grandmamma, I believe I reserve the right to make such a decision for myself.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tarasova tilted her head. “Zhenya, my daughter Maria and her husband Alexei have been blessed with three children. Surely you are acquainted with all of them.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya swallowed against the ice in her throat as her gaze slipped down the table to the family on her grandmother’s right. The Yagudins.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Prince Alexei Yagudin, Tarasova’s son-in-law, smiled smugly as he caught her gaze. His dinner jacket was studded with military medals, including a slender ribbon for the conflict at Austerlitz, and his hands twitched on the table as if he could sense a battle about to begin. His face might have been handsome twenty years ago, but his features were permanently trapped in an expression of bitter contempt for everything he lay his shrewd eyes upon. Beside him, his wife Maria sat like a stone figurehead, her face empty.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya still failed to understand why Tarasova held any esteem for such an intolerable man. She couldn’t remember the last dinner party that had passed without Yagudin delivering a biting monologue about the evils of democracy, the righteousness of slavery and serfdom, or the dangers of treating women as humans rather than assets. The entire family knew of his reckless gambling, his unadulterated ruthlessness towards his own soldiers as a commander in the Imperial Army, and his frequent weekends of debauchery in saloons and brothels. But no one ever dared mention these things at the table of the Grand Duchess Tarasova. Whether she knew of his crimes or not, Prince Yagudin held Tarasova’s respect, and anyone respected by Tarasova was to be shielded from even the slightest criticism.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“The Prince and Princess Yagudin,” said Tarasova, “have secured respectable husbands for their two eldest children. As you know, Natalia is married to Enbert, a distinguished officer in the German military, and Aliona is to wed Prince Ivan Bukin next year. But their youngest child, their only son, finds himself in possession of great fortune and status, yet unwed at the age of two-and-twenty.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Ahh, Prince Valeri,” said Nina. “I remember him. He’s the one who spent the summer eating mud from my garden and designing devices to torment the mice he found in the cellar.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tarasova’s eyes bulged, and she shot a silencing glare at Nina.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“In—in his defense,” said Maria Yagudina, “he was only ten years old.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya pressed her hand to her chest to make sure her heart was still beating. Even as a child, Prince Valeri had been her worst nightmare. He shared all of his father’s bigotry but none of his cleverness. She recalled several summers in which the young demon had battered her with whittled sticks, leaving red stripes up and down her arms, to remind her of a woman’s </span>
  <em>
    <span>place</span>
  </em>
  <span> in the world.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had avoided his company for the past several years, but from what she’d heard, he was growing more like his father with every passing day.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, what do you think?” said Nina.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Ignoring her racing heartbeat, Zhenya raised her eyes to Tarasova. “Your offer is quite generous, Grandmamma, but I’m afraid I can’t accept it.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why not?” Nina cried out. “Do you want to die an old maid?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tarasova held up a hand for silence. Her chin was dented with a frown, but her voice was steady. “Let her speak. Tell me, Zhenya, why would you refuse to marry Prince Valeri Yagudin?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya flinched under that burning gaze, but she didn’t break her stare. “My heart is already taken.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A low murmur rumbled down the long table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grand Duchess Tarasova raised her eyebrows. “And who, pray tell, might this young man be?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The entire hall held its breath as one, waiting for the fateful words to fall from Zhenya’s lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Prince Vladimir Morozov of Perm.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She spoke his name no louder than an exhale, but it shattered the room into calamity. The exclamations of shock and horror rolled over each other until she could not tell who said what.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh my God!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Impossible!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Nikolai Morozov’s bastard son?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is he even in line to inherit?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This must be a joke!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Silence</span>
  </em>
  <span>!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Every muscle at the table froze as Grand Duchess Tarasova’s shrill voice bellowed across the dining hall. In the pandemonium, she had jumped to her feet and now lurked over the cowering guests. Her plump face was purple, her fists shaking, and she looked at Zhenya with an expression of pure venom.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Is this true? Have you sold yourself to the Morozovs?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya’s breath was rushing in and out of her lungs in great gasps, sending tremors through her body. The room was tilting, the faces swimming, and her skin was prickling with goosebumps and sweat at the same time.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I am in love with Vladimir,” she said. “I have no connections with his father.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“This is inconceivable!” Yagudin’s face was red and bloated with fury, and he slammed his fist on the table so hard his glass tipped over. “Tatiana Anatolievna, your granddaughter has allied herself with a French sympathizer.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s a lie!” Zhenya cried out. “Vladimir is loyal to Mother Russia. Uncle Yagudin, he fought in the war </span>
  <em>
    <span>against </span>
  </em>
  <span>the French under your command.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Oh, Alexei dear, why must you always jump to such conclusions?” The silky voice of Madame Eteri sent Zhenya’s stomach churning. “Not everything is a game of politics. More likely than not, she is merely carrying his child.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Shut up!” said Trankov.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The guests stared at him, but he didn’t apologize.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Grand Duchess Tarasova let out a long, heavy sigh. “I have made many compromises for the happiness of my family. I have arranged marriages that are far from ideal because I value the well-being of my bloodline over the well-being of the individual. But I will drown myself in the Moskva River before I will call Prince Nikolai Morozov my son.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Vladimir is not his father!” said Zhenya.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>But he is still a Morozov!</span>
  </em>
  <span>” Tarasova’s voice rose to an outraged screech, like the anguished cry of a bird in the jaws of a predator. “Do you not know what that means? Have you no compassion for your sister?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya’s face burned as all eyes in the room fell on Tanya. It seemed like a lifetime since Prince Nikolai Morozov had approached Tanya at her debutante ball and tried to take advantage of her, but as soon as the words left Tarasova’s lips, the rumors and scandals from a decade ago came blazing back to life.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Tanya did not let her composure slip. She sat perfectly straight, her eyes directed towards the guests across from her but focused on no one in particular. Her lips were schooled into a nonchalant half smile, and the color in her cheeks seemed to come from the heat of the room rather than the embarrassment they’d tried so hard to provoke. In her deep purple gown and shimmering pearls, she looked far more noble than any of the gossiping fools that clamored around the table.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“That’s enough!” said Trankov, throwing down his napkin in a heap. “Tanya and I came here to enjoy a pleasurable meal, and since we’ve arrived, I’ve heard nothing but outrageous insults towards my wife and her sister. Grand Duchess, if you plan to marry off my sister-in-law to the most intolerable buffoon in Moscow, I will have nothing to do with it!” He rose from the table and caught Tanya’s arm. “We’re leaving.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tanya cast a sympathetic look towards Zhenya before Trankov started pulling her out of the room. Although he led the way, she strode out with her head high and her eyes half open, as if the entire crowd here was not worth her time. Despite Trankov’s towering height, it was a little-known fact that Tanya was the true leader in their marriage.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya shivered as the door closed behind them. The room seemed colder without the comfort of her compassionate sister and the security of her protective brother-in-law. She dug her feet deeper into the cold marble tiles beneath the table, forcing herself to stay focused on the moment in front of her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“How much do we truly know about this Vladimir?” said Grand Duchess Tarasova. “Which one of Nikolai’s wenches of the year is his mother? What are his connections? What are his qualifications to be the husband of a Tarasova woman?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“He loves me.” The words filled Zhenya with a warm, glowing light that radiated from her chest and gleamed through her skin. “He loves me, Grandmamma, and that is more than Prince Valeri Yagudin could ever give me. And I would rather live the rest of my years as an old maid than give my heart to a man who has none.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The Grand Duchess’s face had gone white. Princess Nina was stammering, too shaken to speak.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>As Zhenya looked down the rows of shocked guests, she realized the cold, bitter truth she had denied for years. No Tarasov had ever married for love. Zhenya’s father had settled for a union with a plain, bumbling girl to appease his mother, the woman who would always stand above his wife. The Grand Duchess herself had accepted a proposal to a much older man, who had died before Zhenya could even remember. Although Tanya had found happiness with Maxim Trankov, love was an exception in Tarasov matrimony, not the standard.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So be it!” Yagudin leaped from his chair, one fist held aloft. “If she wants to die a pathetic spinster, no one can stop her. Let her shrivel up in her old house until she gets so old she can’t even walk herself to the loo. Let her gorge herself on her loneliness until she gets thrown out of her own house because she’s run out of money. Let her join a nunnery for all I care.” He seized his wife’s arm and yanked her to her feet. “We will not be humiliated in front of our own family.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya met his eyes with a cool, steady stare. “You’ve humiliated yourself enough without my assistance, Uncle Yagudin.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>He spat on the floor and dragged his wife out of the ballroom. The absence of his rage left the room humming with a new tension: the icy wrath of Grand Duchess Tarasova.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Zhenya.” The name was not shouted dramatically or exclaimed like a curse. It was a simple, quiet word that carried more weight than Zhenya could bear. “Get out of my house.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She froze in her seat. Grand Duchess Tarasova’s eyes were burning a hole through her head, furious and merciless. In that moment, Zhenya knew all too well what had been done. In the eyes of her grandmother, Zhenya was no longer a Tarasova at all — she no longer deserved the respect that name carried after what she had done to their family.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya rose from the table, slow and unsteady. Her heartbeats were rattling her body, her breathing was ragged, and her head was spinning with too many thoughts yet nothing to say. But as she passed the Grand Duchess, she felt words leave her lips.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Thank you, Grandmamma.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Tarasova’s eyebrows slammed together in confusion. “Thank me for what?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Zhenya glanced back at the table full of Tarasovs — people who had sold themselves into slavery to a family name that offered them nothing in return. Her father, who had dedicated his entire life to a woman who vexed him for the sake of his family’s name. Her mother, who had crafted a perfect daughter to be offered as a sacrifice to a wicked prince. Her grandmother, who had pledged herself so fiercely to duty that she would never understand love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“For setting me free.”</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0018"><h2>18. You've Ruined My Life by Not Being Mine</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Annabelle Nikolayevna Morozova, heiress of Bakhusa Hills and sole legitimate child of Prince Nikolai Morozov, glanced over her shoulder at the brick mansion in the distance. The sun beamed down on the wide plains surrounding the estate, but the house remained dark and shadowy, a gloomy outline against a pale background. Taking a deep breath, she turned around in the saddle and kicked her horse to a gallop.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The wind whipped back the flaps of her fur cap, and her ears sang with the cold. The air was still sharp with the tang of early April, bringing a vibrant flush to her fair cheeks. A hawk swooped through the air in a swift nosedive, nearly knocking her cap to the ground. She tossed her head back at the blindingly blue sky and laughed.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A beautiful fool, they called her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She did not tighten her grip on the reins until the house had vanished into a black speck on the horizon. She was panting from the cold air, and her thick brown curls spilled out from under the hat. With a sigh of satisfaction, she patted the sweat-streaked neck of Krasota, her elegant white horse. On a business trip to Paris, Prince Morozov had met an elderly couple who owned a pregnant mare. Upon seeing the beautiful horse, he had demanded to buy the foal as soon as it was born. He’d hired an extra stagecoach to bring it back to Russia in time for Annabelle’s fourteenth birthday.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“What a generous man!” the serfs had whispered when they caught sight of the marvelous gift. “If only he could be generous to more than one person in the world!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Annabelle had no illusions about her father’s character. She was not blind to his faults, as many of Moscow’s socialites assumed. She was neither naive nor immoral, and she condemned his weak soul every time he took a new lover into his home or gambled away another fortune. She loved him fiercely, but she knew his fickle heart would never beat true, and to force it into submission would be akin to domesticating a black bear. Prince Morozov was two men rather than one. He was a benevolent, witty, charming, compassionate man. He was also a calculated, manipulative, unscrupulous womanizer.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She had learned from a young age never to bear the shame of his transgressions, no matter how many people whispered behind her back. Her father had kept her in Perm as long as he could to protect her from the rumors, but he could not shield her forever. By the age of twelve, they’d feared her. Temptress. Femme fatale. A girl who’d lost her innocence before it was hers and spent her days seducing men of power.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>But Annabelle had never so much as flirted with a man.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Women were so much simpler. They cared, with hearts, with minds, with souls. She had never understood her father’s love of liquor or gambling, but she couldn’t begrudge his weakness for female beauty. Women were God’s most divine and complex creation.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>And none were as beautiful as her father’s wife.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>When Prince Morozov had first told Annabelle she was getting a new governess, she’d protested all the way. She did not want to be trapped in Perm another minute while girls in Moscow and St. Petersburg had their fun. But the moment Ksenia Andreyevna had arrived, Annabelle had felt drawn back home with a great magnet. She’d found herself looking forward to the days of reading in the drawing room, strolling in the garden, or riding in the woods. She’d found herself studying her companion’s face, trying to puzzle out the story of this mysterious woman with no family and no past. And sometimes, she’d found herself lying awake after midnight, imagining the taste of those soft warm lips on her own.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>It had taken all of her patience when her father had asked Ksenia to be his wife. She had held her tongue. She had smiled and congratulated them like any respectable daughter would. Everyone had assumed the tears in her eyes at the engagement party had been tears of joy.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The past eight months had been torture. When the war had broken out in the fall, Prince Morozov had insisted on bringing her back to Perm. “I won’t have my daughter in danger when the French sack Moscow,” he’d declared. “</span>
  <em>
    <span>I </span>
  </em>
  <span>know that you are a daughter of France, but the soldiers may not.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The French hadn’t even reached the Russian border before the Russians had surrendered. Prince Morozov had spent the past month crowing about it, shaking his head at the “cowardly Russians” and applauding the French for their “valiant fight”. During those conversations, Ksenia would tilt her head back and study the elaborate murals on the ceiling, as if her husband’s opinion was of no interest to her. </span>
  <em>
    <span>A wife shouldn’t have to feel bored by her husband</span>
  </em>
  <span>, Annabelle mused. </span>
  <em>
    <span>I wouldn’t be boring to her</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She crumpled a handful of her hair in her fist. Her father had spent the past twenty years capturing beautiful women only to throw them away. He uprooted them like brilliant flowers, shut them away in dark rooms, and discarded them when they’d withered into dry stems. He could have any woman he wanted, but Annabelle — despite all her charm and beauty — would never know love.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Annabelle! Annabelle!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>She startled upright in the saddle, glancing around to see where the voice was coming from. Marie, one of Annabelle’s half-sisters, was running across the field, waving her arms wildly. The snow was not deep, but her boots sank every few steps as she struggled across the sprawling stretch of land. Annabelle steered Krasota in Marie’s direction, closing the distance between them.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Annabelle, thank God you’re here!” said Marie. At fourteen, she was already as tall as Annabelle, and her nose was red from the cold. “Vovan has come home!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Vovan?” Annabelle’s eyes widened. She had not seen her eldest brother since he’d left for the war. They’d received word that he had returned to Russia unharmed, but he’d made no effort to visit Bakhusa Hills. “When?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Just a moment ago. He arrived in a rush—he says he needs to speak to Father immediately.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Why? Is he all right?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I think so. He just said he needed to have an urgent discussion.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Annabelle frowned. Vovan and his father had rarely spoken to each other since Vovan had come of age. Truth be told, she didn’t blame him. Being the bastard son of the most infamous womanizer in Russia boded ill in society.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that can’t be good,” she said. “Come, hop on my horse. We’ll ride back to the house and see what’s happening.”</span>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <br/>
</p><p>
  <span>Annabelle </span>
  <em>
    <span>heard</span>
  </em>
  <span> what was happening before she </span>
  <em>
    <span>saw </span>
  </em>
  <span>it.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Even through the thick wooden doors of Prince Morozov’s study, the sound of shouting easily reached the opposite end of the corridor. Annabelle and Marie positioned themselves halfway down the hall — close enough to hear the conversation but far enough that they could flee if anyone came in or out.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Are you out of your mind?” Prince Morozov bellowed. “I’ve never heard such an outrageous request in my life!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I came here to ask for a house for my future wife,” said Vovan. “What’s the problem with that?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Don’t you dare call her your wife in my presence! Of all the women in Moscow, you’ve chosen one from the most vulgar, despicable family in Russia!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She wants nothing to do with them! She’s already given up her claim to the Tarasov fortune. The Grand Duchess has disowned her.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Well, that’s not my fault! How could you even look at one of those wretched Tarasovs without shuddering? They are hideous. For God’s sake, get control of yourself, boy! They won’t even let you within ten feet of her. What kind of childish plan did you have for this?”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“I intended to earn their respect by winning honors in the war. But since the war only lasted for one battle, that wasn’t possible.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You don’t need to earn their respect! It’s worse to be respected by rodents than hated by kings! A Morozov does not grovel with peasants!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So I’m a Morozov now? I’m sorry, it was hard to tell when you left all of your fortune to Annabelle!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Annabelle swallowed. Nobody ever talked about it in front of her, but she knew all of her siblings resented her for being Prince Morozov’s sole heir. It wasn’t her fault; by law, legitimate children were first in line for inheritances, and she was the only child Morozov had fathered while in wedlock. But her shoulders ached with the invisible weight of his fortune and the collective disdain it brought upon her.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Morozov or not, you are a man of dignity! And no man of dignity would squander all his money on a filthy Tarasova wench.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>A fierce clapping sound interrupted him, and someone groaned. Vovan had slapped his father in the face.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“You, of all people, want to lecture me on how to pursue a lady?” Vovan was almost screaming. “You have spent your entire life seducing governesses, tavern girls, even </span>
  <em>
    <span>serfs</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Your current wife won’t even tell you her real name. Princess Evgenia Tarasova is one of the most eligible women in Russia, and you have no right to stand here and tell me who I can marry.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Then go on! Marry the broad and make yourself miserable. But mark my words, you won’t see a kopek of my fortune, and your </span>
  <em>
    <span>wife</span>
  </em>
  <span>—” Prince Morozov spat the word like a curse, “—had better not set foot upon any of my estates. I hope this hussy is worth the cost of your happiness.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“She </span>
  <em>
    <span>is </span>
  </em>
  <span>my happiness. I don’t care if I have to build a house of sticks for her—no matter what you say, I will make her my wife. We will be happy, and you will be doomed to suffer in this miserable hole of a house until you drink and gamble yourself to death!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“Get out of my sight! You may have my name, but you are no son of mine. From this day on, you are a stranger to me. Go on and make your bride a house of sticks, I couldn’t care less. You deserve her. You are as repulsive to me as a Tarasov.”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>“So be it! I have no more words for you!”</span>
</p><p>
  <span>The door to the study swung open, and Vovan burst into the hallway. In his military uniform, he was a towering, intimidating figure. His ginger hair and beard had grown long, and his face was burning with rage. He was wild, dangerous, unhinged.</span>
</p><p>
  <span>Annabelle and Marie skittered back as one, trying to reach the other end of the hallway before he noticed them. But he covered the distance in an instant, pushing them aside without even glancing at their faces. His furious footsteps echoed across the marble floor as he stormed through the house. A moment later, the massive front door of the mansion screamed on its hinged and slammed with the force of a punch to the gut.</span>
</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>